Robotech: The Smoldering Earth
by GVincent
Summary: Sequel to "Robotech: The Ashes of Empire". 2015- Earth is recovering from The Zentraedi Holocaust. The RDF and Army of The Southern Cross compete for dominance as they join in the struggle to quell growing malcontent factions amongst the marooned Zentraedi population. In this turmoil, a Te'Dak Tohl expeditionary force arrives to recon and prepare for Supreme General Krymina's war.
1. Foreword

**Foreword / Confessions of an Author**

Dear Interested Readers-

Thank you for deciding to investigate my second posted work, _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth._ This work, though it contains a majority of new characters is the sequel to my previous work, already posted in full- _Robotech: The Ashes of Empire._ At the risk of imposing my work upon you, I would also hasten to advise that reading of _Robotech: The Ashes of Empire_ may assist in understanding one of the critical sub-plots of _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth._

That advice being given, I think that _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ does stand sufficiently on its own, and can be enjoyed as such. It also will adequately prepare you for my next work, in-progress, _Robotech: The Enforcers' War_.

First things first.

Before we get started with _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ there are just a few "liberties" that I have taken that I should disclose. _Robotech_ "purists" will certainly pick up on these anomalies, and may find them distracting depending on the level of their purist taste. Changes I've made, I believe are at least rooted in reason and for the purposes of my storyline serve to produce a more interesting and textured plot.

Timeline Compression. Set in late 2015 (clearly the _Robotech_ -alternate 2015 and different from the one we live in) I have the RDF in the initial stages of decline with indications that the REF his already established and building in strength for the dual purposes of fulfilling Henry Gloval's strategic vision of taking the fight to The Robotech Masters, and also mounting a defense against rogue Zentraedi elements of Dolza's shattered forces, and possibly against hostilities with The Invid. I believe that this scenario is not only possible, but would have been likely as Breetai would have certainly advised his new allies of the threat posed by The Invid and in response, The United Earth would have used the enormous manufacturing potential of the captured Robotech Factory to assume an appropriate military posture as quickly as possible. For this reason, readers will find that VF-1 series Valkyries are still patrolling the skies of Earth at the same time that Alpha Veritechs and lesser REF vessels are flying around space. Other tweaks, you will discover as you read and hopefully accept given my basic premise outlined above.

The Army of The Southern Cross. As the timeline has been compressed, readers will find the ASC building in strength and control as a sort of confederated militia in areas of the Earth that opted out of joining the pre- _Macross_ unification movement. I've altered the character of The Army of The Southern Cross somewhat- not making them "villains" necessarily, but a shadier military faction than the RDF with the same basic goals of defending humanity. Given the post-"Zentraedi Holocaust" world of 2015, and the fact that the resources of the afore mentioned Robotech Factory would be going to serve the ends of the RDF and REF- I think that these changes are at least feasible and make for interesting conflict and reading. I will let you be the judge.

Character Crossover. My brief background with _Robotech_ is that I first was exposed to the story in the late 80's / early 90's in high school- not through any of the animates series, but through the Palladium role-playing-games. Perhaps this also explains my willingness to have the series timelines overlap some. In the course of game play over the years, certain RPG characters were created and played by friends. Many of those characters appear as characters in _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ as faint reflections of how they were played as part of the RPG. Amongst them was a character I created, Lance "Moggie" Cattermole, who in fact was based on a character (Lance "Mogey" Cattermole) from Derek Robinson's novel, _Piece of Cake_ and a subsequent portrayal of the character by Neil Dudgeon in the BBC mini-series of the same title. I beg Derek Robinson's forgiveness for borrowing some of his character's basic qualities, but I also feel that I've altered the character's persona and story enough to say that my "Moggie" is a creature in and of himself. Still, for those who are fans of historical fiction, I highly recommend Mr. Robinson's novel and to view the BBC adaptation of it, in which I'm sure you'll have a love/hate relationship with the Dudgeon character. I humbly offer my "Moggie" as an homage to them both.

That's about it.

So, if you're still game, let's get into _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_.

I hope you enjoy.

Very Respectfully,

GVincent


	2. Fighter Pilot's Breakfast

**ROBOTECH:**

 **The Smoldering Earth**

By GVincent

THE WORLD WAS BEAUTIFUL ONCE,…

I know, I remember it.

I remember holidays at my grandmother's summer home in the countryside with great fields of green grass and streams sparkling and alive with fish. I remember the summer days with the sun hot on my shoulders with no cares but winning a football or cricket match against a team of my chums before the call came for tea. And that was life.

Life changed though.

Later I remember growing up worrying that the great Russian Bear would come tramping west to the tune of a hundred thundering tank divisions until he called the Thames a stream in his back yard.

That as much as anything made me sign up with the RAF, when there still was such a thing.

The Bear died in its sleep though- not so much as a whimper from the poor bugger, let alone a roar.

Through history though, bears have never been so dangerous as blokes, and after the Bear we were quick to find other blokes with whom to do battle. Mostly blokes with strange names in sandy places that the average chap couldn't find on a map, nor would he want to-.

Except the bloke with the strange name had oil.

Then one day one bloke with a strange name decided that he wanted the land of another bloke with a strange name and that oil was in danger. We had a cause to fight for again, and we did, pranging the sod something awful.

I got my first taste of killing and thought that I knew something about death.

What no one figured on was that pranging the bloke with the strange name who wanted the land of the other bloke with a strange name got the panties of a lot of other blokes with strange names in a twist.

Some were on a boil that we talked to God differently than they did and that their way didn't seem to be garnering much favor. Others only cared about the oil and the money and just used God for a rallying cry.

-People can be daft like that, especially blokes with strange names.

Finally, whether for God, or oil, or just because there weren't enough old chaps around who remembered the last big game to warn us- the world began to tear itself apart again.

They called it The Global War because "World War III" would have seemed like that sequel that takes an interesting cinema plot that one step too far.

For years we killed this bloke for oil, and that one for God, and this one over here for something he did to someone else's great grandfather a century before- and everyone held their breath waiting for the end to begin with a brilliant white light exploding over a capital city somewhere.

It didn't happen.

We were so bent on killing one another and so well-practiced in it that we didn't stop to think that we might not know a real thing about killing at all.

We were about to learn though.

7 July 1999, 0623.44 hours Zulu would later be noted as the most monumental moment in Earth's recorded history.

NORAD tracking stations detected a massive electro-magnetic pulse that they could not account for, coinciding with a significant flux in the Earth's gravitational field. First thoughts, on both sides of the war we found later, were that it had been a botched nuclear strike on the military satellite networks of one side or the other.

The world hung for forty-five minutes a key turn away from a real _Dr. Strangelove_ grand finale.

Cooler heads prevailed though and both sides concluded that the EMP had been the result of some anomaly coinciding with the sudden appearance of an asteroid body between the Earth and the Moon. Possibly a collision between a large and a smaller asteroid was the immediate conclusion that allowed the men in underground missile command bunkers to breathe easier- for another seven minutes.

Then the asteroid changed course and _reduced_ velocity as it entered Earth's gravitational field. Rocks don't slow themselves, you see…

The pucker factor went back off the scale.

0719.23 hours Zulu.

An uninhabited, unassuming, and unremarkable island by any standards named, Macross, in the South Pacific nearly ceased to exist as the "asteroid" came to the fiery and abrupt end of its journey.

Macross instantly became the most valued lot of real estate on the Earth- though we didn't know it just yet.

With campaigns raging, the Allies still found the time to break off a U.S. carrier battle group to rush to the scene to investigate. Maybe the high command had an intuitive moment, maybe it was just one of those odd things in war where you don't want the other sod getting to anything of remote interest first. Anyway, the Yanks went with great haste.

It was worth their time.

With all that was going on in the world, the obliteration of a small island in the middle of the Pacific barely made the second page of any paper's science insert, but the press had not seen what the shore party from the carrier had seen.

Reports went up the chain of command quickly, and what they said was more closely guarded than anything that had ever been put to paper. Generals and government leaders, reading the reports found the contents so serious that it was not long before the same reports were on the desks of the government leaders on the _other_ side of the war.

The world rejoiced.

For reasons that could not be explained by any event of significance in The Global War, a general cease fire was ordered on 1 August, 0001 Zulu hours.

The killing and dying had stopped, the celebrations had begun.

Civilians did not notice the quiet, remote rumors of something extraterrestrial being found on an island in the Pacific. It was just as well, no one had answers at that point- only questions.

Jubilation turned to astonishment as the governments that had been determined to vanquish one another only weeks before quickly made provisions for peace and stabilization of Earth's affairs- and then surpassed peace to speak of something unheard of before: unification..

By December of the year, the Articles of Unification and a United Earth Constitution had been drafted and ratified by almost three quarters of the national representatives, and on 1 January 2000 the world became a single entity- mostly.

Historians might later describe the event idyllically, seeing it through rosier colored glasses, but it was a bloody mess. Anti-unification protests and riots in every major city, militant nationalist groups sprang up like weeds either attempting to build viable militias or acting out their discontent through terrorism- hardly everyone stepping out in the street to sing _Imagine_ in one voice.

For months it seemed that the hastily conceived and even more hastily realized idea of a single world would fly apart at the seams. Then on the first day of March in the last year of the twentieth century, the world learned the great secret.

We weren't alone in the universe.

The most carefully guarded secret in all of human history was publicized- mostly. The "asteroid" that had nearly destroyed Macross Island in the South Pacific was no asteroid at all. A spacecraft of alien origin had fallen to Earth, split wide open, and was quickly spilling all its secrets to the world's foremost minds in science and technology.

The marvel of it all just about put an end to the raging of the malcontents overnight.

True to form of every government in history though, this new one did not disclose everything all at once. We were learning at an unprecedented rate from this Promethium gift- but not solely because of our own brilliance. The primer, intermediate, and advanced studies of a technology that had already been dubbed _Robotechnology_ was not being spoon-fed, but shovel-fed to us by the ship's contents- along with a warning.

Others would come looking for it.

Disclosure of the "possibility" of "hostile aggression" from space was made public on 1 June 2000- but there was no need to worry as we had been given the means with which to defend ourselves in that "extremely unlikely event".

The world had focus, perhaps for the first time ever.

Technology advanced in bounds. Innovations that would have taken decades to conceive of and develop with the progress of only a year before began to occur on nearly a monthly basis. Radical new thinking in the areas of computers, mechanical engineering and design accompanied a new power source that had arrived with the alien technology. A perfectly "green" bio-energy fuel in the form of an alien plant's seed pods (named, by the translation from the alien information, "The Flower of Life") was quickly harnessed, and with it, away dropped the energy concerns of a planet.

New machines, equal parts alien and human were designed and built. Space stations were constructed, followed shortly by a Moon base and a Mars base. All the while sightings were reported of the ghostly apparitions of Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, Gene Roddenberry, and Stanley Kubrick- all seen with knowing grins and blue steel erections.

Humankind recreated itself- outwardly at any rate- using the tools given to us by a benevolent alien benefactor whose name we learned was Zor. We rose quickly above anything we thought we were capable of becoming- constantly impressing ourselves with our own ingenuity. All the while, the centerpiece, the crowning jewel of all that we aspired to was the alien ship. Now named the _Super-Dimensional Fortress-1_ , or _SDF-1_ , it would be the H.M.S. _Victory_ of our time and to our world.

Like Daedalus, we had fashioned our waxen wings, and like Icherus, we were prepared to fly too high. I myself had long since discarded my RAF wings for those of our world's new protector, the Robotech Defense Forces. We were confident like falconers to fly at anything.

Like Icherus though, we were on the verge of falling to the sea.

The fall began, as many do, with a lie, on 1 July 2009. Just under ten years to the day of its arrival on Earth, the Earth was to return the _SDF-1_ to the stars in our service following her commissioning.

Things did not go as planned.

What the world was told was that a militant anti-unification group had smuggled a fifty-megaton nuclear device just offshore of Macross Island and detonated it- incinerating the island, the now substantial population, and the _SDF-1_ entirely.

The world was in shock.

If the reaction of the world to the lie was shock- the reaction of the world to the truth would have been abject terror.

They had come.

Just as the warning had promised, the gods had arrived to take fire back from the mortals. Only we knew- rather, _some_ knew- that the "they" were not gods, but slaves. An artificial race of giants called _Zentraedi_ created by the same race that had built the _SDF-1_ had been sent to reclaim it.

They weren't going to get it without a fight.

While the world falsely mourned the loss of its greatest pride to "anti-unification terrorism", the _SDF-1_ was slowly making its way home from the outer reaches of our own solar system, having leapt there taking the whole of Macross Island with it, using the alien's faster-than-light, hyperspace fold drive system. The military at the highest levels and the government watched with great anxiety as the _SDF-1_ fought her way home, keeping a vastly superior force under the command of a Zentraedi general by the name of Breetai at a constant arm's length.

Debates raged behind closed doors of whether it would be better if the Zentraedi were allowed to recover the _SDF-1_. Perhaps then they would simply slip back into the void and leave a primitive race alone. All the while though, the world quietly- quietly, to the point where the civilian population barely noticed- prepared to defend itself.

The lie ended on 11 August 2011.

The _SDF-1_ came home and with a story to tell. The government had no choice but to admit the lie and own up to the truth. The world and humankind, as it often does, decided to sacrifice its savior in hopes of saving itself. The _SDF-1_ , in no uncertain terms, was ordered to leave the proximity of Earth and in doing so, hopefully draw away the attention of the Zentraedi.

An old Japanese proverb tells us that our enemies are our best teachers. They are also our keenest students.

What the crew and the adopted civilian population (the survivors of Macross Island) had learned of the Zentraedi was that their "culture", if you could call it that, was a purely military one that made the Spartans look like an undisciplined Boy Scout troop. What the Zentraedi had learned from us was that their way of life was not the only one. In fact, indirect and direct contact with the humans aboard _SDF-1_ had begun to cause significant problems within Breetai's command. For the first time, questions were being raised about the nature of Zentraedi, by Zentraedi.

Unfortunately for both Breetai's army and the whole of humankind- the audacity and the threat of this questioning did not go unnoticed by the higher echelons of the Zentraedi command.

Perhaps out of fear of loss of control, or fear of something else- the supreme leader of the Zentraedi, Dolza, decided the fate of both Breetai's forces and humankind without hesitation.

Annihilation.

The contaminators and the contaminated would be destroyed in the same massive stroke.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Fortunately, some wisdom transcends the species. With no other choice, and beginning to see the possibilities of human existence himself, Breetai decided to side with Earth in her defense.

22 August 2011, 1135.08 hours Zulu- the fight began.

Zentraedi warships under Dolza's direct command appeared in such numbers that it seemed they would block out the sun. What followed seemed to promise the end of it all as far as Earth was concerned.

Three billion people died instantly at 1141.37 hours Zulu.

Actually, the exact numbers will never be known, but it was over half of the Earth's population that was wiped out by a singular, massive, planetary barrage.

I don't remember that event myself. I don't want to. I woke up in a makeshift hospital four days later with a nurse tying a tag to my left big toe.

I did awake to great news though. Through cunning, audacity, and a few tricks we had up our sleeves, the combined forces of Earth and Breetai had defeated Dolza's fleet by killing the Supreme Commander.

Stunned and disorganized, Dolza's forces had retreated to regions of space unknown.

Almost every major city, and a good number of the minor ones on Earth had been leveled. Oddly enough, Nelson remained standing in Trafalgar Square- a sign perhaps.

Great news.

Every silver lining has its cloud. Earth would have its share too.

True to the projections of every anti-war, granola-eating activist since Hiroshima, the resulting dust and debris from the Zentraedi attack darkened the sky within ten days. The Earth sank into a perpetual cycle of pitch dark and deep twilight. Plants seemed to die, animals followed, and in despair epidemics of suicide swept the remains of humanity.

No one knows how many died in those times either.

The skies stayed dark for six months- not the two or more years that scientists had projected. Perhaps that was our lucky break, because I'm not certain humankind could have clung on much longer. The world had become medieval again, and was sinking toward primitive.

I said that the plant life _seemed_ to die. That wasn't a sloppy application of language. In the years since the alien ship had crashed, what no one had realized or discovered was that in its descent to Macross Island the alien ship had spread the spore of The Flower of Life into the prevailing winds of the atmosphere to be carried to all the corners of the globe. In our pursuit of technology over the following decade, no one had noticed the appearance of a strange new plant- mostly in the rich tropical regions of Earth. No one knew that the Flower's spore, and its very essence was infusing itself into the ecosystems of its new home.

When the skies darkened and photosynthesis halted, the plants did not die. They entered what scientists later called "protoculture sustained bio-stasis". They went to sleep- kept alive by the bio-ethereal energy of the alien flora.

When the sun returned, so did the plants and trees where the radiation levels were not too extreme. Those areas were few and far between- but humankind still had a toehold on life.

Thanks also to a highly secretive project known as "Ark", developed at the same time as initial studies of the _SDF-1_ revealed the threat of the Zentraedi, the technology and resources to replenish the plant diversity and animal population of Earth through cloning and other means had been stashed away in deep underground bunkers and on those Moon and Mars bases humanity had been so proud of.

Starvation, disease, and suicide still ran rampant- but we had a fighting chance.

Among the things that had changed with Earth's new dawn was that "we" now included a population of roughly a billion Zentraedi. Survivors from both Breetai and Dolza's forces, marooned on Earth, and not quite quit of their Zentraedi ways.

Aliens fought humans for the basic needs of life. Aliens also fought aliens, as humans also fought humans.

The new age was promising to be a dark one. Survivors seemed to band into almost feudal states as the United Earth Government struggled to keep control and distribute what resources there were.

It was a confusing time to be in the RDF. It still is, actually. We were sworn to defend, but the "who" we were defending against was never the same twice. After a bit over a decade's holiday, it seemed humankind was back in the business of killing itself while at the same time defending against the same Zentraedi threat- only now from within.

The Zentraedi, those bent on maintaining their old ways, had their final significant victory on 30 December 2012 when two renegade Zentraedi, Khyron and Azonia, of Breetai's former command killed themselves in a successful suicide attack on the _SDF-1_.

Many mourned the loss of a great symbol. For my part, I think it had done what Zor had built it to do.

So much for history.

The world was a beautiful place once.

We live in a burned out shell now. We're slowly on the mend, but I'll never live long enough to see the world the way it was when I was young and could look up at the stars without fear or anger.

I don't know why Zor sent his ship to our world. I don't care. I don't know if we've gained anything that was worth the price.

I don't know if human and Zentraedi can co-exist, though all of the social philosophers say we can and must be one and the same for either of us to survive in the new world.

Maybe the new world needs to be rid of those like me first.

I can't forget the world the way it was. I can't envision the world the way many say it should be. I can't forgive Zor for changing the old world, or the Zentraedi for taking it away. I hate them.

I hate them all.

Lt Col Nigel Patrick Winters

Commanding officer, 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron

 **Chapter One**

 **Fighter Pilot's Breakfast**

"..It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind- as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it, not a sentimental pretense but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea- something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to…"

Joseph Conrad

Heart of Darkness

 **Edwards City, the Mojave Desert, California**

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters awoke with a start- his right arm snapping out reflexively to find the alarm clock on the nightstand. Without opening his eyes, Winters found the alarm switch by following the contours of the clock with his fingers and pushed it a notch to the left into the off position.

He didn't have to open his eyes to know it was three minutes before the alarm was set to go off. It was a quirk he had developed for reasons he could not say- waking three minutes before the alarm. Winters had toyed in experimentation with this peculiarity of his over the years. He had set the alarm for different times, changed the hour he retired to bed- but always, when the alarm switch was pushed into the "on" position, he would awake three minutes before it.

Or as Winters preferred to think, and told those with whom he'd admitted the quirk, time was just three minutes too slow to catch him.

Creative musing aside, waking up three minutes before an alarm in the morning was an awful time to wake. It allowed the thought that there were a whole 180 seconds remaining before one had to rise and answer the call of an arbitrary fixed point in time- but 180 seconds was useless time. Too brief to drift back into sleep. One could only lie in the darkness and count the seconds slipping away.

In the darkness, Winters heard the soft pattering of sand carried by a sudden gust of wind against the streamlined stainless steel exterior of the camper trailer. The worn slats of the window blinds caught the same gust through the slightly opened sliding pane causing them to luff and rattle.

The bed next to him was empty. A soft hiss and gurgle from the main room of the trailer that acted as living room, dining room, and kitchen told him why. Rio was awake already and making what passed for coffee these days. Time was usually five minutes too slow to catch Rio, and Winters despite his tendency to sleep lightly rarely noticed when she slipped away.

Rio's counterpart remained though, and from Rio's pillow to which he had moved the moment it had been vacated, Lucky began to purr loudly. Winters opened his eyes slowly and by the green glow of the alarm clock's LED numbers, could see the cat's single eye staring back at him from inches away. Winters had no idea how the cat had lost its right eye, most of its right ear, and half its tail. It didn't really interest him. Lucky didn't interest him much either, but he'd come with Rio and an amicable co-habitation arrangement had been reached. The cat blinked its single eye indifferently at Winters before adjusting himself on the pillow to give the human his back.

"The same to you.", Winters muttered hoarsely as he tossed the threadbare coversheet and blankets aside and swung his legs out over the edge of the sagging mattress. He sat at the edge of the bed for a moment and flipped the alarm clock's radio switch on. He drew a deep breath and waited. It would come any second.

A great hacking cough rattled around in Winters' lungs and chest and then, in finding the route to escape, rose with the force and sensation of a cyclone up his throat. The taste of stale cigarettes and the local distillery's answer to bourbon filled his mouth having resided in his throat all night. A second wave of coughing, less violent than the first shook its way free of him. A third was much more manageable and barely worthy of notice.

Winters found his pack of cigarettes with three remaining and his Zippo lighter on the nightstand where he'd put it the night before and lit a smoke as the small clock radio crackled with mediocre reception.

"This is the BBC Foreign Service from London.", the pleasant female voice said through pops and hisses of the unstable airways, "This is the twelve o'clock news for the twentieth of September, 2015. The Ministry of Agriculture issued its report on northern hemisphere crop harvests and southern hemisphere crop projections yesterday. Harvest levels have exceeded the projected net tonnage yield by eight percent in wheat and other staple grains thanks to particularly productive years in the growing regions of Ukraine and Canada. At the press briefing following the official release of the report, Assistant Minister of Agriculture Swensen declined to speculate on the impact this yield will have on rationing this coming winter. In other news from Yellowstone City, Military Chief of Staff, General Breetai, is due to speak to Senate Committee on Budget Appropriations later today to argue the proposed increase in military spending for Fiscal Year 2016. The proposed budget for the Ministry of Defense from the Office of the President has drawn sharp criticism for showing the greatest increase in spending of any of the ministries- nearly triple the increase to the next largest budget, the Ministry of Internal Reconstruction. Committee Chair Jean-Bernard Rozier is expected to provide extreme resistance to Breetai's arguments based on written statements of position favoring use of global resources to accelerate reconstruction, and stemming from ongoing debates over the application of the manufacturing capabilities of the GS-95 Automated Factory to which Rozier is politically linked. Rozier is a founding member and perhaps the loudest proponent of the so-called, _Home First_ movement in the Senate."

Winters dragged deeply on his cigarette, watching the glowing orange ring creep toward him along the cigarette's length leaving a crooked finger of ash. Nicotine began to swim his veins, slowly elevating him back to a state near human in feeling.

"-In news from the Zentraedi Control Zone of Brazil, riots continued for the fourth night in a row in Brasilia over claims by leaders of the integrated Zentraedi population that rationing of food, relief goods, and medical treatment are preferential to humans."

"Go the bloody hell home then.", Winters growled at the radio as if to speak to the nameless, rioting Zentraedi masses the voice spoke of. Winters punctuated his statement by dropping the cigarette, smoked to the filter, into a half glass of water on the nightstand. A sharp hiss added the effect he was looking for.

"Army of the Southern Cross troops were called in to quell the riots leading to over a hundred injuries, but no fatalities. ASC officials refused to comment on the validity of the Zentraedi accusations, nor would they comment on similar accusations made in numerous regions of South America where the ASC holds responsibility for food distribution efforts. A sign of progress against typhus outbreak in Liberia was seen yesterday-."

Winters switched the radio off and rose in the darkness. He felt his way around the bed in the center of the small room and stepped through the curtain in the doorway into the hall. The glow and hum of the single fluorescent tube in the center of the trailer's ceiling was accompanied by that of a small space heater that Rio had moved to the floor just behind where she worked at the kitchen counter.

Rio's long hair that varied in color between the deep black of most Latina women of the region to light brown and almost blonde in natural streaks. It was pulled mostly into a ponytail that hung well between her thin shoulders. Her right bang, grown sufficiently long to hang to her chin, was free of the otherwise tightly pulled ponytail and performed the task for which Rio had grown it.

"Nothing to eat- just coffee.", Winters said, half in the bathroom, half out.

Rio's head turned to look at him with the hint of a small smile at the corners of her mouth. The pronounced scarring on the right side of her face below the eye, across the cheek, and down to the line of the jaw moved with the expression. Rio quickly smoothed and adjusted the concealing bang to cover it more thoroughly.

"Persian flaw, Rio- remember Persian flaw.", Winters said as he watched her pour the powdered contents of a small bowl back into a plastic storage bag and zip it again.

It could have been eggs- possibly porridge or cream of wheat. It didn't matter to Winters really. All were equally repulsive at any hour, and especially at this one. Another cigarette and a cup of black coffee would do.

The aluminum toilet bowl sang under a stream of urine as Winters leaned against the back wall with a single hand. The buzz of the small light fixture over the sink almost concealed that of the four liter water heater bolted to the wall over the chest-high showerhead in the fiberglass stall.

Winters leaned over to run the cold water and caught a glimpse of himself in the small hanging mirror. Grey. Grey was continuing its steady advance from his temples and the hair at the sides of his head into the last bastion of medium brown at its crown. Even his pale blue eyes seemed greyer. Winters looked away, turning on the cold water flow to the shower and resolving that the grey looked better with the creases at the corners of the eyes and mouth. He had never won awards for his beauty anyway.

Rio tapped her short, unpainted nails on the narrow countertop to entice Lucky, who had emerged from the bedroom just after Winters, to leap up. The cat's muscles tensed and the half tail spun like the propeller on a child's toy airplane as he struggled with the complexities of calculating a jump without the benefit of depth perception. When the cat sprung, he landed deep and bumped off the wall with a muted squeak of embarrassment.

Rio petted the animal soothingly and set down on the counter a small bowl of assorted meat scraps that she constantly brought home from work for him. The meal would have to be quick, as Winters' shower would be brief and though he showed little other interest in domestic cleanliness- he could never stand the sight of the cat on the counter.

"Good morning."

Rio swept the cat gently but quickly from the counter top as she herself was startled to jump. Lucky, licking his lips retreated to a cubby hole beneath one of the seats in the dine-in nook- breakfast would still be there later, he knew.

"Didn't mean to scare you, sorry.", apologized the man whose head of sand colored hair was just inside the partially opened door.

Rio grinned and shook her head, holding her hand to her chest as though to hold her heart in.

"Can I come in?"

Rio nodded and motioned the man inside.

The door opened all the way now and the head was followed by a body of medium height and fit build dressed in a faded green flightsuit with a matching flight cap bearing a lieutenant colonel's silver oak leaves, and a weathered but well maintained leather aviator's jacket. As the man entered, he removed his cap and sat on the corner of the dine-in nook's booth seat. Lucky came out to bump and brush the man's leg, prompting him to stroke the cat's grey and black-striped body.

Rio motioned to the coffee machine on the counter that had just about filled its carafe.

"No, I'm fine- thanks.", the man said politely as the cat, having had his fill of attention returned to Rio and the countertop to finish his meal of scraps.

"Is Jack ready yet?"

Rio motioned to the bathroom where the shower could clearly be heard running.

"I'm early anyway.", said the lieutenant colonel, "So, today isn't the day that you decide to talk to me?"

Rio gave the same shy grin she always did and shook her head.

"Okay, have it your way. There's always tomorrow."

Lt. Col. Fred Dalton hadn't actually expected a word from Rio, and as usual hadn't been disappointed in his expectations. The fun was in the attempt really. Dalton found that she was one of those whose body language and facial expressions- that portion of her face that she would show- spoke volumes. Dalton couldn't think of much that Rio needed to say to him that she didn't say already in her way.

" _Fuck me!_ ", came a bellow from the bathroom that rose into a shrill yelp.

"And that would be Jack.", Dalton noted, "He's awake now. Still have that little four liter water heater, Rio?"

Rio nodded, as she leaned against the counter, facing Dalton and pulling at her right bang to maintain a veil of hair on that side of her face.

Dalton imagined what she may have looked like before, picturing the slight and attractive features of the left side of her face transposed. The indifference of the world was bad enough, but deliberate cruelty in these times seemed that much more heinous. The worst of it all was that the scars ran deeper than her face. Somehow though she had retained a kind heart and Dalton admired her for that.

"Linda and I just got a twelve liter unit.", the lieutenant colonel said, "I'll bring the old eight liter job by tomorrow. God knows where you'll mount it in that phone booth, but Jack'll figure something out."

Rio's visible eye blinked, clearly unconvinced.

"Okay", Dalton said, revising his plan, "I'll come by with Lyle and _he_ can figure something out."

Rio's relief was obvious.

The door to the bathroom opened and Rio hastened Lucky off the counter for a second time. Winters emerged with a towel around his mid-section. He nodded his acknowledgement to Dalton as he paused in the doorway to the bedroom.

"The blood flowing now?", Dalton asked.

"Like a snow-driven stream- which is about as warm as the shower was.", Winters replied, his pronounce British accent seeming thicker in contrast to Dalton's more non-descript mid-American one, "Did Rio set you up with coffee?"

"She offered."

"I'll be a tick."

"No rush- The Outlands will still be there.", Dalton called after Winters as he vanished through the curtain.

"You brought your car, Freddy?"

"No", Dalton replied, "I rode a mule. Of course I came in a car- I checked a rover out of the motor pool. Haven't gotten the car running yet?"

The heavy sigh from the bedroom was followed by, "You know, I spend so much time under the bonnet that I'm going to start calling my self Bo Peep."

"Face it, Jack", Dalton said, "Fixing things isn't your forte- you work on the other end of the spectrum. Just have Lyle-."

"It's not Lyle's bloody car, is it?", Winters snapped.

The discussion was over, Dalton could tell, it was time to let it go.

"Yeah, your car."

"You sure you don't want a cup of coffee?"

"No, I'm good."

"How about a cat?", Winters asked stepping out of the bedroom dressed similarly to Dalton.

"No, I ate something too."

Rio looked mildly disturbed at the exchange.

Winters emerged from the bedroom anachronistically looking like a pilot of the early 1940's ready to soar off in his Spitfire rather than one of the early 21st Century. His classic RAF leather aviator's jacket seemed part of a set with his equally worn, faded, and cracked leather officer's wheel cap. Perhaps most out of place with contemporary attire, though keeping with Winters' homage to history, were the well broken-in brown officer's jack boots he always wore in the place of the more utility oriented, standard issue boots available to him through the supply quartermaster. The flightsuit was regulation though.

"You don't have any fags, do you Freddy?", Winters asked, drawing the chrome plated, Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 caliber revolver and all ten inches of its barrel from the holster that hung at his right thigh to open the cylinder and load it.

"The better part of a pack, actually." Dalton replied hearing the soft click of each heavy cartridge entering an empty chamber, "They're Winstons though."

"That's fine.", Winters said spinning the cylinder before snapping it shut, "I'm almost out."

"They're unfiltered."

"Even better."

"When are you going to get an automatic like every other peckerwood on post?", Dalton asked as Winters holstered the weapon appearing to be the parody of _Biggles asWyatt Erpp._

"When simplicity fails me.", Winters replied, patting himself down to verify his pockets contained all that he needed, "Clint Eastwood never needed an automatic."

"He had script writers on his side. If you ever have to punch out, you won't have the same luxury."

"If I have to punch out, I'm likely buggered anyway.", Winters pointed out.

"It's your optimism I love so much, Jack."

"Again, is Buster short for _ball buster_?"

"Only when I care."

"You care?"

"Not really.", Dalton said rising as Winters crossed the room for the door.

Rio intercepted Winters, half standing in front of him and pressing a battered thermal mug of coffee into his hand.

"I didn't forget.", Winters said, bending slightly to kiss her on her visible cheek, "Working this afternoon?"

Rio nodded, making a turning motion with her right hand.

"Can't anyone else ever close?", Winters asked, slightly annoyed, "Never mind. We'll catch up with you there later and bring you home."

Rio nodded her agreement and waved a small goodbye to Dalton as he followed Winters out the door. Dalton returned the gesture as Winters left the trailer without so much as a backwards glance. He did though take up the upper half of a cane that had lost its lower portion sometime in the distant past. The upper shaft was a finely hand-carved piece whose dark wood had been worn smooth to the scepter-like cap years before by the previous, unknown owner. Dalton had always known Winters to carry the improvised swagger stick that he now twirled expertly in the fingers of his right hand- a vent for nervous energy. Like many of the small quirks of the commanding officer, it fit him without seeming ostentatious.

The "Suburbs" of Edwards City, built and named such after the town of Mojave had been deemed unrecoverable after the Zentraedi attack, were little more than a series of meandering dirt roads through sage and scrub bush outside of the town proper. Residents varied from military personnel choosing to decline the hospitality of base accommodations, to civilians seeking to detach themselves from the reviving cosmopolitan lifestyle of the town while keeping it in sight.

Edwards City was a fringe of light on the horizon, some eight kilometers away. It was a great sign of progress that the street lights (it was a sign of progress that there were street lights) burned all night, as it was that a year before the city water and electric utility systems had extended into the Suburbs. Winters speculated the latter meant that one day there were plans for the town to expand, and possibly truly become a city. For now though, the Suburbs were ideal to him. The town required only that residents register their claims on their lots annually, and that they pay for utilities. Otherwise, the City kept its nose out of the Suburbs. That was just fine by the residents, including Winters.

As Dalton had said, a standard Wolverine utility vehicle was parked on the sun-baked sand next to the partially shrouded form of Winters' vintage 1965 Ford Mustang. Unlike the Wolverine, with its six all-terrain tires that stood higher than the hood of the sportscar, and which could operate reliably in almost any climate or topographical condition, the Mustang had not run in months- nor did it promise to. Dalton could not even recall where Winters had found a vintage sportscar, let alone how he had acquired it. Some things were better not to pry into too deeply.

The Wolverine showed itself to be one of the older in the base's inventory, as it's light armored body and half cab showed clear marks of small arms impacts. Attack by highwaymen was still possible these days- even so close to a military base as the Suburbs were. It was more and more uncommon, but still possible. For that reason Dalton had also checked an infantry rifle out of the base small arms arsenal. It never hurt to be too safe.

"Driving or riding shotgun?", Dalton asked.

"Shotgun.", Winters said, fighting the inclination established in his youth and going to the right side of the vehicle to ride as a passenger.

As Dalton got into the driver's side of the cab, he tossed the pack of cigarettes he had spoken of to Winters who quickly tapped one free and lit it. A sip of coffee warmed his empty stomach and two drags on his cigarette energized him for the beginning of his day.

"Fighter pilot's breakfast.", Winters muttered to no one, then to Dalton he said, "Okay, let's go save the world."

The engine of the Wolverine started immediately and powerfully with minimal effort from the starter motor. Through the open window of his door, Winters could smell that they were burning diesel today. Re-supply of the base must have been good for the month.

Dalton flipped on the flood and headlights dropped the automatic transmission into gear and all six wheels of the Wolverine engaged to carry it up the narrow dirt drive and onto the main dirt road toward Edwards.

The Antelope Valley of California had heard the sounds of flight from nearly the technology's infancy. Its heritage began in 1933 when the United States Army Air Corps established Muroc Army Air Field on the ideal sight of the dry Rogers and Rosamond Lake beds. The remote location at that time, and the year-round weather conditions perfect for flight made it a logical selection for test flight and advancement of the technology from the beginning. The first sonic boom had rolled over the desolate desert landscape, and the names of aviation giants such as Yeager, Crossfield, and Armstrong still echoed in the remains of contemporary structures that still stood.

Renamed in 1950 for pilot Glen Edwards, killed in the testing of the YB-49, Edwards Air Force Base continued to serve as the premiere U.S. flight testing facility as home to the Dryden Flight Research Center, the Air Force Research Laboratories and "The Rock"- Edwards Research Site where the engines of the legendary Saturn 5 rockets had been tested among others- until The Global War. With the war had come the new, additional mission of defending the western approaches to the continental U.S. from air attack. Only during the peace years between The Global War and the Zentraedi holocaust did Edwards return to its mission of almost pure research and development.

As Dalton and Winters left Edwards City behind heading southeast on the newly paved Kern Expressway, the perimeter fence and main gate to Edwards Air Base (renamed as such as part of the NORAMWEST RDF base complex including the facilities of Nellis Air Base and China Lake Air Base) seemed to loom up out of nowhere in the darkness. A heavily armed squad of base security troops stood post outside of the reinforced guardhouse, the sergeant of the watch stepping out to meet the Wolverine as it rolled to a stop just short of the gate.

Everything about Edwards these days lent itself to the image of proper military discipline and operation. What was true of NORAMWEST was doubly true for Edwards though- it was a well maintained façade. The illusion was maintained as much for the personnel as for what civilian populations dwelled around the three bases of the complex and in remote but habitable areas between. NORAMWEST was the far backwaters of the ongoing struggle to maintain order over the substantial Zentraedi population that had congregated mostly in Central and northern South America. No less than a dozen base complexes composed of scores of bases stood between the real threat and California Province. Edwards, like Nellis and China Lake, seemed at best to stand as a symbolic beacon of order standing between the Pacific Ocean and the ocean of the wastelands, The Outlands- to the east.

NORAMWEST in truth was the posting where the highest service to the cause was to display the uniform as a flicker against the darkness. Unofficially, little else was expected and quietly, off the record, most knew it.

Dalton lowered his window and held his identification card up into the sergeant's flashlight beam, as did Winters when the light shifted to him.

"Good morning, Colonels.", said the sergeant stepping back and saluting.

Dalton and Winters returned the salute as the gate was opened and allowed them to pass.

"So, did you hear about Mumuni?", Dalton asked as the gate fell behind and Muroc Road carried the Wolverine toward the heart of the main base. The "main base" referred to the remains of the old USAF Edwards Air Force Base over which the Robotech Defense Forces base had been constructed. Destroyed by a nearby heavy particle beam strike during the Zentraedi attack, the only real similarity between the old facility and the new was the ground on which it was built.

"What about her?", Winters asked. The CO of the Vigilantes was an excellent pilot, bearable in small doses- even likable- but more often than not an itch that could never really be scratched.

"She's up for her bird.", Dalton said turning left off of the main road onto Sky Streak, to approach the southeast fighter complex.

Winters groaned and let his head roll back against the seat's headrest, "Bloody marvelous. That will make her that much more unmanageable."

"You could have kept yours, you know.", Dalton reminded Winters.

"Silver birds weigh too much on my delicate shoulders.", Winters said dryly, "Did you have to start the morning for me this way?"

"Well, as she's likely going to be at the club later- I thought you'd want time to brace up."

"You mean start drinking heavily before I show up."

"That too."

Dalton pulled up to a second fence and gate barrier, this only guarded by two security troops with side arms. The senior of the guards recognized both Dalton and Winters and waved them through, saluting as they passed.

The interior of the Wolverine was illuminated like day by the powerful flood lights of the hangar complex tarmac. The work of supporting the fighter wing at Edwards went around the clock, and as a result ground crews could be found in and amongst the hangars at all hours. As the Wolverine crossed the tarmac, many such crews could be seen ducking in and out of the hardened aircraft shelters on various tasks, or congregating in small groups on a smoke break. The crews were mostly in their late teens and early twenties- children assigned the daunting task of maintaining the most sophisticated fighting machines the Earth had ever produced with infrequent and often insufficient support from outside supply and logistics. For this reason, it was not uncommon to see utility trucks hauling parts scavenged from one machine to another.

This morning though, the level of activity and the general goings-on seemed indicative of the efforts needed to support putting a flight of the 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron into the air for patrol. Such was the detail of four ordinance handling trucks that were also crossing the tarmac for the same relative destination as Dalton and Winters.

"A lot of bang rolling by there, Jack.", Dalton said, knowing that Winters had seen the ordinance handling detail himself, "And I was hoping for a quiet morning."

"One way to find out.", Winters replied as Dalton pulled into an open space beside the flight prep building.

"Who else is on the board today?"

"Vice and Scooter.", Winters said, "I think."

The flight prep building could function as a home to the pilots assigned to it if the threat conditions warranted. The threat condition at NORAMWEST had not warranted it in recent memory though. Besides the locker room and flight prep room, the building also had a modest barracks-style dormitory with a small recreating room that doubled as a mess with its modest kitchen. This area had leaned more and more toward recreation over the years as reflected by the wall decorations that varied from pilots' childrens' artwork done at the base school, to the far less benign, tattered posters and full-page magazine photos of attractive and famous young women both past and present- some even with their clothes still on. The atmosphere- if not made clear by the appointments of the general purpose area- was summed succinctly by the sign on the door to enter it, made by Winters himself with the aid of a standard military stencil kit, that read:

"HE-MAN WOMAN-HATERS CLUB.

NO GIRLS ALLOWED! KEEP OUT!"

Winters and Dalton turned left through an open doorway before they reached the general purpose room. The squadron briefing room was barely large enough to accommodate the sixteen aged recliner chairs (a standard luxury amenity afforded to pilots by tradition) that were divided into two sections before the briefing podium at the front, and the multi-function screen mounted on the wall behind it.

To either side of the screen, the obligatory assortment of flags stood in their mounts. In a hierarchy of importance from left to right were the United Earth flag- an ensign with a white field denoting purity, with a central red circle representing Sol (a significant symbolic victory for the old-Earth state of Japan, Winters always thought, who had managed to prevail with that aspect of the flag design during the heated debates over its development) and within the orb, a pale blue diamond symbolizing the common (carbon) made into something rare and precious. This was how Earth had chosen to represent itself.

The NORAMWEST flag had the same United Earth symbol located centrally on a field of blue and straddling crossed lightning bolts. Over the symbol (popularly called the "D&D", "Dot & Diamond") were the outlines of the California and Nevada Provinces and a pyramid of three linked stars representing Nellis, China Lake, and Edwards.

Of any of the flags, Winters was least impressed by that of Edwards. A red field with the outline of Rogers and Rosamond Lakes beneath an eagle (a bird whose rendering Winters always thought made it look deranged) clutching lightning in one talon and laurels in the other.

623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron's banner still gave Winters' heart a rise at seeing it- even years after he had worked with the more substantial artistic talents of Lyle to create it. True to Winters, the squadron ensign grudgingly held symbols and motifs of the past.

Crossed broadswords as one might hang them on a wall for display lay behind a shield divided into a lower half containing the United Earth D&D, while the upper half contained in two equal divisions, a gold ring of unity and the symbol that Winters had won over Lyle in the battle of wills- a Union Jack. Perched atop the shield, its wings spread to a flight-like span, was a hawk- regal in appearance and fine in detail

The head of Major Vaughn "Vice" Vincenz appeared over the back of one of the recliners in front row of the section to the left of the room as he lifted himself in his seat and twisted to look back at who was entering. His "high and tight" haircut kept his thick black hair from being long enough to suggest whether it was his black or Puerto Rican blood that was dominant in him. His other features, darkened also by the sun, gave no resolution either way.

"Jack, Buster.", Vincenz said, greeting the CO and XO.

"Vice.", Winters replied simply, "Where's Scooter?"

"Ritual.", Vincenz replied.

"Ah.", Winters replied. It was understood to be like clockwork.

"We can't have a mission unless Scooter drops six pounds in the john.", Dalton said taking seat on the right side of the aisle, "Superstition will prevail though."

"Good fortune through regularity.", mused Winters settling into the seat beside Dalton and removing a simple tin flask adorned with a raised squadron ensign from his coat pocket made the gesture of a toast and drank. Winters sealed and tucked away the flask, and then tilting the brim of his wheel cap forward over his eyes said, "There's got to be a joke in there somewhere. Oh well- wake me when the briefing is over, Freddy."

Footsteps falling quickly on the floor announced the approach and arrival of Major Garret "Scooter" Phillips. So called for his sharp, youthful features beneath a diligently maintained crop of reddish-brown hair, a stranger to the squadron would have been hard-pressed to guess he was junior in age only to Winters. His perpetually energetic, some would say "manic", state added to the impression.

"We can fly now.", Phillips announced, entering the briefing room and tossing an old magazine into the seat of a recliner as he passed it.

"I truly believe we're buggered if you ever eat too much cheese.", Winters said from beneath his cap.

Scooter hopped over the arm of his chair rather than taking the extra step to round it, and in landing caused the worn springs to squeak.

"Yeah, but we're safe. Who the hell has seen enough cheese to bind you up in the last couple of years?"

"He's got a point.", Vice said.

"Better to err on the side of safety", Dalton insisted, "Keep eating your fiber, Scooter."

"Good morning, Knight Hawks."

Winters didn't need to lift his cap. He recognized the voice of Major Wang (a name and rank combination that would have drawn significantly more ribbing for the officer if he had not been an agreeable personality of the highest order) from the base's Flight Operations Center. Wang more often than not briefed the Knight Hawks- a tradition of lesser importance. The "tradition" was also something of a ritual in that the missions Wang briefed to them were regularly of the cookie-cutter variety.

Wang settled in behind the podium, activating the viewscreen and inserting a memory stick into the computer console before him.

Winters raised his cap enough to be able to see the screen. As the other three pilots went into the pockets on the sides of their recliners to retrieve the pads of paper and pencils routinely kept there for note-taking, Winters did the same after a moment. He, like they, could probably recite by memory the flight paths, waypoints, and general objectives of any of the missions they were likely to receive. There was no arguing with tradition or ritual though.

"This morning we have a circuit patrol of Sector Four.", Wang said as a detailed topographical map of the California and Nevada wastelands appeared on the screen with a roughly square flight path that would be the patrol circuit laid over it.

"Starting the day with a rim job on The Outlandss", Winters muttered, drawing a snicker from Scooter, "No wonder this job leaves a bad taste in your mouth."

"Yep", agreed Wang. He was very informal in his briefings, bordering on casual, but the pilots knew their duties and despite their relaxed attitude could be counted on to perform them reliably, "Standard rim job. There are a few details that might pep it up a little though, so heads up."

Wang tapped a control icon on his screen and the intelligence overlay appeared on the map.

"Army units are active in the southeast quadrant of the sector on population assessment and resource distribution operations. You can be sure that they haven't gone unnoticed out there. Intel suggests, and reports from outlying posts confirm, at least two and possibly three migrant populations moving into this general area. Mostly human, at least some Zentraedi of the micronized sort- but as you know that doesn't mean much. Anyone can get a dumb, train-robbery mentality if they're hungry enough."

"Dumb enough that they're crossing The Outlandss.", Dalton observed, "Radiation is still fairly high in that area. At least they won't be needing haircuts or dental care."

"Be that as it may, sir.", Wang continued, "They're smart enough to have picked up on the fact that supplies are making their way west and that distribution ops are increasing. They also know that with most of our combat units' attention and resources going south, there are fewer troops to protect those ops. So, we need to show a little deterrence from upon high. Call sign for our earthbound brethren is Pack Rat."

The pilots began to jot down notes based on what Wang was saying and what appeared on the screen.

Wang continued, "Let's cover C2 details and then other units that will be up there with you. I show wheels-up in an hour and a quarter."

Had Pablo Picasso been an aeronautical engineer, he would have been welcomed into and accepted as part of the design team that conceived theVF-1 "Valkyrie" series Veritech Transformable Fighter.

The most commonly recognized product of the fusion of Robotechnology with existing human science and military aircraft design was something that Picasso's gift for the abstract would have yielded. Driven by the need to fulfill many requirements of both air and ground combat- the Valkyrie was for all intents and purposes, three fighting machines in one package.

Its natural, primary configuration was that of a sleek, single seat, twin tail, twin engine, variable-sweep wing fighter jet. In this the Veritech's most swift and agile form, and propelled by twin fusion engines whose fuel source were "protoculture" cells derived from the alien Flower of Life- the Valkyrie was a lethal killer. With a superb performance envelope and a thrust to weight ratio unprecedented in human history, the Valkyrie had proven itself in the first xeno-teran conflict the equal or superior to any machine in the Zentraedi inventory. Equally capable in atmosphere or space, and with the requirement to refuel measured in months of flight time instead of hours- the fighter was the apex hunter of the skies. The Valkyrie possessed both the technical sophistication of late generation NATO fighters and the rugged durability for which the Mikoyan-Gurevich Design Bureau's "MiGs" had been famous. Even the sole, universal complaint of the pilots who had first operationally test flown the Veritech to critique it- that was the comparatively large radar cross section of the aircraft in comparison to late generation, purely terran fighters- had been compensated for with the application radar absorbent laminant.

The sizable RCS (50% again that of the American F-15 that still dominated the skies of the world during even the late stages of the VF-1's development) had been a recognized flaw from the beginning of the project, and a constant thorn in the design team's side. The flaw, stemming from the Valkyrie's numerous flat surfaces and distinct joints was a necessary evil and considered acceptable for the benefits it garnered in fulfilling the other established requirements for the fighter.

In truth, the Valkyrie was not purely a "fighter" in the truest sense of the word- nor was it purely an aircraft. Inspired by the advanced engineering tutelage discovered within the wreckage of the alien spacecraft found on Macross Island- human engineers had conceived a new kind of vehicle referred to as _mecha_. The Valkyrie Veritech _Transformable_ Fighter exemplified what mecha could be.

Through modular, multifunctional components that necessitated physical joints- producing the RCS issue- the nimble fighter could physically reconfigure itself at the pilot's command into a _Battloid_ , or humanoid form. Intended as a solution to doing battle with the giant alien, Zentraedi- a pilot could use the speed of the fighter form to reach a battlefield before engaging in close-quarters combat with an enemy ten times his physical size while retaining the light armored protection of a vehicle.

Though much training and practice was required, pilots by the end of their training were able to get the Battloid to perform any physical feat of movement or agility that they themselves were capable of through both the purely technical neural-intercept control system known as "Neuro-Pilot" and the rationally inexplicable properties of the mecha's Flower of Life fuel source that augmented the technical system with an almost symbiotic relationship between machine and pilot.

The third form, and that for which Picasso's imagination for the bizarre would have been most suited if he had in fact been one of the Valkyrie's designers, was neither aircraft nor humanoid machine- but _both._ Originally conceived as a physical configuration that would allow the Valkyrie vertical take-off and landing capabilities (a feature insisted upon by Harrier pilots of the British Royal Navy, and U.S. Marine Corps who had sat on the design requirements board) the "Ground Effective Reinforcement Wing-Armament Locomotive Knee-joint", or "GERWALK" form elicited the same question of how such a thing could fly from every person who saw it for the first time. To see the nose and sweep wings of the fighter form, with the engine/leg modules dropped down at a near right angle to the long axis of the air frame, and the Battloid arms protruding and usable from beneath each wing's joining at the junction box- one naturally was forced to question.

Much to the joy and vindication of the Harrier pilots who had protested so loudly the validity of such a configuration- it was quickly discovered by test pilots that the GERWALK form, or "mode", changed by the pilots to "Guardian" (a name that stuck) possessed the ground performance of the Battloid, while also providing impressive air performance in both vertical and horizontal flight.

Such was the origin and the development of the Veritech Transformable Fighter, of which all three forms were represented in Hangar 11-1 as Lyle supervised the arming of Lt. Col. Winters' fighter.

Senior Master Sergeant Lyle DeVeo's appearance was what one might have expected for a man with his responsibilities and in his billet. Aircraft Captain to all of Knight Hawk Squadron, the maintenance, repair, modification, and general well being of each of the squadron's sixteen Valkyries was DeVeo's sole purpose for being. "Sole purpose for being" was as much or more a personal conviction as a professional one.

Of medium height and of build and general physique that could be compared accurately to a burlap sack of potatoes, the Oklahoma native was rarely more than fifty paces away from one of his beloved machines when on duty- and almost as infrequently saw the need to be off duty. DeVeo was the type of man who looked as though he was born with the grit and grime of mechanical work under his fingernails- though he himself was oblivious to the social _faux pas_ of his general appearance. His work coveralls were oil stained where they were not (and sometimes were) dotted with cigarette burns. His face was not unlike the old brown Western boots he wore- used, cracked, and abused by the elements to the point that they defied assessment of age.

"Lyle!", called Winters from the side entrance to the hangar, "You beautiful, bald bastard-. How's my love this morning?"

The mechanic (Lyle was officially the _Aircraft Captain_ , but preferred to be called and referred to himself as a "mechanic" ) involuntarily checked the comb-over of his thinning, dark brown hair as the pilot made his way across the glass-smooth concrete hangar floor.

"Yer love? _Sheeyt…_ ", Lyle snorted, almost spitting at the thought then thinking better of it in the shrine of his occupation, " _Mah_ baby."

Somehow to Winters, Lyle's drawl always sounded to him like an old vinyl LP played just a little too slowly on the turntable.

"Mah baby `til tha wheels leave ground, `n mah baby `gain when the wheels touch ground.", Lyle corrected laying his hand on the Valkyrie's grey fuselage as tenderly as he would touch an infant, "`N she's still mah pride `n joy when y're zippin' `round doin' all that pilot sheeyt. You just r'member that too."

"Good morning, _Marilyn_.", Winters said affectionately to the same, running a finger over the nose art of the cultural icon a half-century dead. Lyle had painted, and took great pride in painting all of the squadron's nose art, as well as personally applying the squadron crest to the fighters' twin rudders. Lyle was proud of all his work, and rightfully so to Winters way of thinking though the thought often went unvoiced. One could almost feel the air from the subway grate blowing up the dead icon's shapely legs in that, the most famous images of her, if one stood close enough to Lyle's rendering.

"How about, _ours?_ ", Winters suggested, swinging his flight helmet by the chin strap.

"Ah'll consider it.", Lyle said, "Whatchy'all doin' out there today? They got us armin' ya to tha teeth."

The aircraft captain followed the squadron leader as the pilot made a visual inspection of his fighter and stopped to pull at the missiles on the wing pylon rails. Ducking beneath the wing, Winters noted the fighter's GU-11 gun pod- a weapon that could be fired in fighter mode from its mount on the belly, or as a rifle-style weapon by the Valkyrie when in Battloid or Guardian mode. He settled for a brief visual inspection of the weapon rather than a physical one- Lyle had likely checked it three times already.

"What am I shooting today?"

"M-338A high explosive armor piercing.", Lyle replied referring to the 400 round munitions load of the brutally powerful 55mm tri-barreled cannon, "Ain't got no sabot rounds in the ammo dump fer ya, but those'll knock somethin' down but good. What they got ya shootin' at today anyway?"

Winters completed his walk around the Valkyrie, _Marilyn_ , and began to ascend the retractable ladder in the left side of the fuselage to the cockpit.

"Desperados and outlaws- if we're shooting.", Winters said stepping down carefully into the cockpit and settling into the seat within the cramped space.

Lyle followed the pilot up the ladder and as Winters attached the air line to his G-suit, the aircraft captain was securing the pilot's safety harnesses and pulling them taut to the proper tightness that equaled mild discomfort to the pilot.

"Well, pard'", Lyle said in the Southwest vernacular, "Make sure ya draw first `n aim low. Bring back mah baby `n we can go into town later wearin' our spurs down."

"Lyle", Winters said putting on his helmet, "I have no bloody idea what the hell you just said to me- but I'm feeling slightly aroused."

Lyle thumbed at the opening hangar doors, "Geyt, ya pervert."

Lyle quickly released the ladder which slid back into its housing and backed away from the Valkyrie's port air intake- checking at the same time to verify that his crew of mechanics and ordinance handlers were clear. When he saw that no one in proximity to the fighter, he motioned to Winters that he was clear to start engines.

Winters flipped the few mechanical switches located to the lower left of the left most multi-functional display panel. The three "glass" MFD panels came to life, as did the Heads-Up Display located forward and central to the pilot's field of vision. Winters inserted a memory stick into the onboard computer port and twisted it into the locked position. As the fighter's computers came to life, running diagnostics of all of the systems and subsystems, the vital information of the day's operations were dumped into the navigation and combat computers.

Within seconds, the computers had verified that the Valkyrie was ready for flight and a large icon appeared in the center screen with "START" flashing in bold letters.

"Control check.", Winters called to the mechanic, "Left rudder, right rudder-." Winters alternated between depressing the left and right rudder pedals at his feet and in glancing over his shoulder could see the movements of the twin rudder fins. Lyle signaled that the twin nozzles for the fighter's multi-axis thrust vectoring system had responded in kind with the rudders.

"Flap, flap.", Winters called drawing the control stick back toward him, and then pushing it forward again. The leading and trailing edge wing flaps responded, as did the horizontal stabilizers to the rear and lower portion of the engine nascelles.

Winters signaled back to DeVeo that he was on the verge of start-up before he tapped the icon on the screen.

Port and starboard, the turbines of the fighter's fusion engines began to drone. The drone rose to a hum and the hum to a whine as the fans picked up speed greedily gulping down air with enough force that ground crews were forbidden to carry loose objects in their pockets lest they be sucked into an engine. When the whine reached a shrill pitch and a deafening volume, Winters heard the reassuring, double pop as the engines lit.

Winters moved the oxygen mask hanging from his helmet in front of his mouth to speak clearly into the microphone.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk One in Eleven-One. Request instructions and clearance for taxi and take-off. Over."

The flight control tower, call sign "Joshua", replied, "Roger that, Knight Hawk One. You are clear to taxi to Runway Zero-Five and take-off on request with unrestricted climb to flight level angels four-five. Wind is at six knots from two-nine-one. Good hunting. Over."

"Copy.", Winters said easing the fighter's throttles forward.

Across the tarmac, Winters could see "Buster" Dalton's Valkyrie powering up to roll out after him in assigned take-off order. The cool desert night air swirled in around Winters as _Marilyn_ rolled onto the tarmac and turned left toward the taxiway. Rogers lakebed lay ahead, and first light was upon it and the rest of the Mojave as the fighter taxied steadily for Runway 05.

Winters shut the canopy as he neared the ramp, and swung the nose northeast.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk One, requesting clearance to take-off.", Winters said. It was more of a statement of intention, really. He had been granted permission to take off already- and the best kind of take-off. One followed by an unrestricted climb.

Lining _Marilyn_ up with the runway centerline, Winters slowly pushed the throttles to the stops. The engine turbines howled to either side of the pilot and roared to his rear as the fighter picked up speed and streaked toward the horizon. When the speed indicator in the HUD reached 150 knots, Winters eased the control stick located between his legs back. The vibration of the pavement dropped away and Winters was light as a feather as he increased his pitch until the nose pointed directly at the heavens. There was a hum and thud as the undercarriage retracted and closed, and the Earth fell behind.

 **Yellowstone City**

The United Earth Congress building was both a forum for and the seat of power to the peoples of Earth.

Like the rising city around The Federal Triangle which the Congress Building stood at a corner of, the building was in a flourishing state. As great as any technological effort of the previous decade had been the effort to incorporate into The Federal Triangle architectural aspects and motifs from all the points of the Earth. Architects, historians, and surviving artisans where they could be found- and workers gifted at mimicry where they could not- had toiled for nearly three years to produce a seat for Government which the world could, with satisfaction, call its own.

Yellowstone City was emblematic of The United Earth in many ways some would argue. In 2011, Wyoming Province had not even entered the running for the contest of a permanent seat of planetary government- representatives arguing for this or that more historic seat of power. The Holocaust of The Robotech War, that had destroyed or significantly reduced each of the contenders to little more than grand rubble had also opened the door for others. Yellowstone City became viable because of its available, uncontaminated space and its access to resources and proximity to a means of defense in the form of one of the few RDF bases to survive the Zentraedi attack relatively intact. Perhaps there was something more that the civilian population grasped in the symbolism of this unlikely location.

Yellowstone City was a place where people would take the best of what was available and make something fine and grand of it.

The committee chamber in the Senate wing of the Congress Building showed under scrutiny, clear signs that it- like the rest of the Congressional Building, and of The Federal Triangle in fact- was still under construction.

For this morning's session though, the scaffolds and implements of work involved in the stone-cutting and carving details of the chamber's stone walls had been cleared and the residue of the work cleaned away from the main chamber and the galleries that now stood full with committee members, government figures from both the Senate and the Council of Provincial Representatives, and a substantial media presence.

Central to the chamber, key figures of the committee sat a bow shaped table reviewing documents that were before them. Anchored in the center seat of the committee table was a large man in a well-tailored suit, whose thick head of hair had gone completely, almost unnaturally white. His meticulously maintained, snowy mane was offset somewhat by his salt and pepper moustache, but more so by the keen, burning eyes below his thick eyebrows of the same grey and white.

A slight commotion and rise of soft conversation swept through the crowd as the steward at the antechamber entrance opened the door to admit the party for whom the committee sat in wait.

Quick heavy footsteps in hard soled shoes fell on the polished marble floor as a form dwarfing all it passed moved toward the center of the chamber. The Zentraedi, micronized to a mere two and a half meters in height, cast an admirable and distinguished aura that emanated from something more substantial than the Army uniform with five silver stars on the shoulders that he wore. His countenance, beneath a a metal faceplate that covered the right portion of his face and head from the cheekbone to the back of the skull and contained an electronic eye, was earnest but not grim. Battle scars earned in wars that predated the births of every human in the room gave him an outward appearance of credibility for his position- but still it was more his poise and the way in which the officer carried himself that commanded respect.

The general of the army went to the table with its pitcher of water, a glass, a microphone, and a seat large enough to accommodate his size and weight that had been set up for him directly opposite the man at the committee table with the white hair.

The officer placed a simple, dossier-style folder on the table and faced the committee table standing at attention.

"All present, this session of the Senate Committee on Budget Appropriations will now come to order.", said the man at the central seat of the committee table with a noticeable but not overwhelming French accent. His delivery of English was clean and certain. Senator Jean-Bernard Rozier actually spoke six Terran languages fluently and was quickly learning the Zentraedi dialect of the alien, Tirolian language- but in Yellowstone City and with the committee he would speak English.

"Please, for the record", Rozier continued, speaking directly at the officer, "state your name and occupation."

The officer's voice came deeply, like distant, rolling thunder, "My name is Breetai, General of the Army. I am billeted as Military Chief of Staff, Ministry of Defense, United Earth."

"General Breetai", instructed the senator, "Please raise your right hand for the oath."

Breetai did so.

"General Breetai, do you swear that the testimony you will give before this committee today is the whole truth given without omission or reservation?"

"I do.", Breetai replied.

"Then please consider yourself under oath and be seated."

Breetai lowered himself into the chair provided and adjusted the microphone before him to the correct elevation.

"General Breetai, I understand that you have a prepared statement that you wish to give to the committee?"

"Yes, Mr. Chairman.", Breetai replied.

"You may do so.", Rozier granted.

Breetai opened the dossier folder before him and quickly reviewed the first several lines of prepared text. He then looked evenly from one face at the committee table to another and began.

"Mr. Chairman, distinguished Committeepersons, Senators, Councilpersons, and representatives of the press.- I do not need to recount the catastrophic events of the Holocaust four years ago as it was an event so pervasive and universal to the people of Earth that it is an experience of common memory. I will not attempt to evoke those all-too-recent memories in a play to benefit from an emotional response. I will rather speak to you today from the base of facts, and how those facts do effect and could potentially affect the future of The United Earth."

"The state of the known universe is transition and turmoil. The conflict between The Robotech Masters and the Invid for absolute dominion over The Flower of Life is ongoing and far from certain in its resolution. Argue as some have about the place of Earth in this conflict, there is no disputing that Earth became unwittingly involved the moment Zor's battle fortress crashed on Macross Island. That level of involvement has only increased since the discovery that The Flower of Life has been able to adapt to and to grow within the ecosystems of Earth. Independent of our intentions or our actions, our very home has become a commodity- _the_ commodity- over which the Masters and the Invid struggle. It is not a question of _if_ , but of _when_ these warring civilizations will discover this and bring the fight directly to our shores."

"Let us speak of threats to our home and our existence. We will speak first of immediate threats. While the victory over Dolza's Imperial Fleet saved Earth and allowed us the potential for a future, it was by no means a decisive victory. Best intelligence estimates then and subsequent indicate that the in the best case scenario, only twenty-three to twenty-five percent- one in four- of Dolza's subordinates were destroyed. Their retreat, while immediate and disorganized was not a complete withdrawal to the distant reaches of the universe. Current intelligence, based on actual contact and engagement, as well as well-founded speculation indicates that a measurable portion of those remaining forces- perhaps as high as thirty percent- roam the regions of Sol's asteroid belt, the Kuiper Belt, and the regions of space beyond Sol's heliosphere. This figure could easily translate into forces exceeding a million ships with their complement of Zentraedi warriors. Only the disruption of the Zentraedi command structure accomplished in the death of Supreme Commander Dolza, and the subsequent in-fighting of his subordinates that we suspect has followed has prevented a rallying of these fragmented Zentraedi forces for redeployment against Earth."

"Let us now speak of more distant threats to Earth, that are nonetheless real. The devastation inflicted by the Zentraedi upon Earth pales in scale and scope to that threatened by an attack by the Invid. I have personal experience in these matters, and have seen first-hand the destruction wrought on whole worlds by this rage driven race. Only the Zentraedi's comparable numbers, and ability to reconstitute by artificial means an effective fighting force has given them the ability to meet the Invid on equal terms in warfare. It is a matter of cold fact that Earth has neither."

"Let us now speak of the options before us for courses of action to preserve our society and our Earth. Regrettably, there are few. We may do nothing. We may do nothing in hopes that the Invid and remaining Zentraedi will cripple and exhaust each other beyond the point of either being an effective fighting force. We may do nothing in the hopes that in their preoccupation with mutual annihilation, the Zentraedi and the Invid will forget an inconsequential planet in the far corner of an unremarkable galaxy and simply never commit resources to a new front. We may hope- but in reality, to hope with no provisions made for other alternatives is criminally and suicidally negligent in our responsibilities as civil and military leaders."

"Let us discuss the option of preparedness. The Senate Committee on Budget Appropriations and the Congress as a whole has before it the proposed military budget for Fiscal Year 2016, that includes allowances for viable defense programs. Defense by the carrot- that is to say continuation and expansion of the Open Arms Program, both an Earth and in the regions of space where Zentraedi forces are encountered. As demonstrated in the joint report issued last month by the Ministries of Internal Affairs, Reconstruction, and Defense- the Open Arms program in July alone was responsible for the indoctrination of one point eight million rogue and detached Zentraedi into Terran society. Two months later, following the socialization program developed by the Ministry of Education, seventy-five percent of those same Zentraedi entered approved military billets or labor positions on all levels involved in reconstruction efforts. Areas in Central and South Americas, even those outlying the so-called Zentraedi Control Zone of Brazil, where Open Arms has been maintained have shown a seventy percent reduction in Zentraedi militantism. Zentraedi are demonstrating that they not only can be reformed, but are eager to participate constructively in society. We must continue to offer the carrot."

"We also must not diminish the importance of, or our ability to use the stick. The proposed military budget provides for continued implementation of the Four Thousand Ship Fleet, to be accomplished by 2020, or 4kF20, as popularly abbreviated. Construction of a fleet including new, mission-capable ships of Terran design, and refitted ships of the Zentraedi fleet classes will benefit Earth by expanding our sphere of influence, control, and stabilization. The question of whether or not Earth is to be a space-faring society has been decided whether the decision was entirely ours or not. We must embrace this destiny and apply the resources required to meet the challenges of that destiny without fear or danger of failure. The Fleet, as proposed, will serve not only as a force of military defense, but as circumstances allow it will be the platform for Terran expansion into and colonization of the stars. With the immediate and future needs of population, agriculture, and resources- the benefit of 4kF20 is clear."

"The Ministry of Defense Budget for Fiscal Year 2016 also provides for the first construction phases of Project Aegis. This strategic planetary defense system represents the most ambitious and comprehensive construction effort in the history of Earth. Aspects will involve every continent and region on Earth, as well as additional construction on Moon and Mars. The project includes both the achievable goals of a satellite based, planetary energy barrier system to withstand direct attack of the Earth, as well as the unprecedented engineering feat to introduce a sizable satellite body into Earth orbit to serve as a base from which the Fleet can repel aggression. The centerpiece of the project, to be named Aegis Station, is past the survey phase- a suitable asteroid body having been found in the Sol belt. The design phase is progressing at an impressive rate and construction plan proposals are beginning to be formulated. The resources and capabilities of Aegis Station, combined with those of the captured and modified GS-95 Robotech Factory will provide Earth with a solid stepping stone into the universe, as well as a formidable defense of the Homeworld."

"In conclusion, I wish to acknowledge issues that many have claimed the Ministry of Defense is either oblivious or indifferent to. The ravages of starvation, disease, lawlessness, and hopelessness on Earth are showing signs of plateauing- but they are far from resolved. After almost four years of reconstruction, still only one out of six men, women, and children on Earth go to sleep at night under a solid, permanent roof, drink clean, treated water, have a nutritionally adequate diet, or receive regular medical care. Many children have never seen technology so basic as an electric light- and still we are asking for the funding to expand into the stars. We are neither oblivious nor indifferent to the plight of the population. In our proposed budget, we ask for the Congress to consider the very real possibility that without the proper tools to adequately defend Earth, we are in real danger of losing what little we have."

Breetai closed the folder on the table before him, folding his massive hands atop it, "I thank you for the opportunity to present my statement and am now prepared to answer the questions of the Committee."

Senator Rozier adjusted his own microphone and with no less poise or confidence than Breetai replied, "Thank you, General, not only for your statement to this committee, but also for your past and continuing service to this Earth and her people. There is no question to the validity of your observations as they apply to threats to the Earth, or the need to provide for her defense. The question before the Committee, one that is our responsibility solely, is that of balance. The world has many, many critical problems in these times and a finite quantity of resources to apply to resolving them. The Terran industrial production capacity is twelve percent of that prior to the Holocaust. While your statement alluded to the resource demands in the Ministry of Defense budget, the material implications are far more disquieting. Full funding and implementation of this budget, which includes the elements not mentioned in your statement of standing the Robotech Expeditionary Force- the Fleet, that is currently under RDF administration- up as an autonomous Service, and an undisclosed number of so-called, _black projects,_ would require seventy percent of the GS-95 Factory's remarkable production capabilities for no less than the next fifteen years, perhaps as long as the next three decades. Allow me to translate that into readily understandable terms-. The same level of production applied to purely reconstruction projects could return the Earth's infrastructure to a state of _status quo ante_ within nine years. Or, _si vous ple_ \- pardon me- _if you please_ , the construction material requirements to fully reconstruct Paris and New York could be met in a week."

Murmurs of shock and conversation rose in the galleries of the chamber as unofficial discussion swept the crowds.

Rozier continued as though only he and Breetai were engaged in the discussion that was progressing toward debate, "Another way to express the material requirements of this budget is to say that the construction of one frigate of the _Ikazuchi_ Class requires the time and resources that could provide homes, power, and potable water to two hundred-thousand people. With the resources needed to construct a single mecha in any of the Destroid classes, a hundred industrial farming tractors could be built- for a Valkyrie fighter, a hundred and fifty. When you consider that roughly thirty-thousand children died of hunger yesterday, based on the latest statistics, and millions more went to sleep hungry- you can see the need for farming tractors. Also, and not to dwell on this one subject, these are the principle, the _principle_ production costs involved in this budget. What you failed to cover in your statement, General Breetai, are the peripheral and follow-on costs for support and sustainment. To provide combat and operational personnel alone for full implementation of the ships, bases, and space stations of this plan would require slightly under five million men and women. When you add support personnel- at the accepted ratio of ten support personnel to every one in a combat or operational role- you have fifty-five million _military_ personnel alone. If you care to expand into the required civilian labor effort in the areas of agriculture, resource procurement and refinement, and labor- you can multiply that by ten once again. For each of those military personnel, you must also guarantee a ready and constant supply of adequate food, clothing, medicine, supplies and services. You see, General- when you begin to- as one of my staff enjoys saying,- peel back the onion, this budget begins to take on the troubling blueprint of society existing to support its military. I'm certain you are familiar with the concept."

Breetai waited patiently for Rozier to pause for his response.

"Mr. Chairman, I will not respond to the implication of that last comment. I will however reply to your more dignified observations. It is entirely true that the construction of a single Valkyrie fighter does require the resources that could be applied to constructing a hundred and fifty industrial grade, agricultural tractors. It is also true that to support the operation of that single fighter, it requires a pilot with the support of more than thirty other personnel. My experience has been, until recently, purely military and does not lend itself to the requirements of agriculture. But I know Zentraedi, and I know Invid. I know that both are still out in the universe in vast, almost unbelievable numbers. With my inexperience with tractors, I will still go out onto the proverbial limb and speculate that in a contest between a tractor and a Regult Battle Pod, or an Invid Shock Trooper- the odds would be in favor of one of the latter two."

"In all honesty, Mr. Chairman, I do not want to see military production or support demands escalate to the point of monopolizing Earth's resources and capabilities. I do want to see it elevated to the level, however, where it can provide a reasonable defense for the civilians who look to the military for defense."

"If I may, Mr. Chairman-.", said Senator Fa, from a province within what had been The People's Republic of China prior to global unification. The province she represented had once led China's effort toward achieving a place amongst the world's industrial giants. Even with the devastation of the Holocaust, these aspirations had not died.

"Please, Senator Fa.", Rozier granted, relinquishing the questioning to the committeewoman.

Rozier had opened the flood gates and it was no longer solely his task to make Breetai swim.

"General Breetai", Senator Fa began, "I sense a discrepancy in your statements here today, with those of a year ago regarding the Defense From Home proposal issued by the Ministry of Labor. As you recall, the Defense From Home program proposed slowly transitioning the industrial production required to support military projects from the GS-95 alone, to Terran industrial facilities as they came on line. You were very outspoken in your rejection of this proposal."

"I was, Senator.", admitted Breetai, "I was opposed to that proposal, madam, as it applied to the acquisition of capital military assets such as warships, mecha, and other sophisticated systems. I was and still am opposed to that proposal until labor-staffed industry can demonstrate quality assurance levels greater than the seventy percent projected by the Ministry of Labor for the first five years of the program. The GS-95 Factory- _any_ Robotech Factory to my knowledge- has _never_ produced a defective or flawed machine or component. I am a proponent of as quickly as possible expanding and applying the full effort of terrestrial industry to reconstruction and improvement, as well as providing material needs to both the civilian and military population. Once production quality standards have reached an acceptable level, I intend to support the distribution of military production responsibilities more evenly between industry and the GS-95."

"General, are you saying that our workers cannot reliably produce military goods?"

Breetai was quick to respond, "No, Senator, not at all. I'm saying that they require time and practice to reach proficiency at producing the technology needed in military systems and components. If a tractor is flawed and breaks down during the harvest- it must be repaired, but the impact overall is negligible. If a warship falters during battle due to a flaw, the results can be severe. As Senator Rozier pointed out, there is no shortage of work to be done in the world today. Terran industry will have sufficient projects to occupy itself, and on which to build technical skill."

Rozier rejoined the exchange, entering the melee without warning.

"Is a military build-up on this scale and at this pace realistically manageable? Military growth of this nature would involve incorporating a significant number of Zentraedi into the ranks of the United Earth armed forces. Can we guarantee that such integration can be accomplished safely? At the risk of making generalizations, or of sounding prejudiced- we cannot allow repeats of the _Warren_ incident."

Breetai was momentarily at a loss for words by the Senator's invocation of such a divisive occurrence.

"Senator, every safeguard that can be put into place is in place. Zentraedi desiring to become part of Earth society must pass through the civil socialization process. Those seeking even an enlistment with the Robotech Defense Forces must pass through additional screening and is then subjected to the same indoctrination and basic training as their human counterparts. Technology is capable of many things, but we have no machine with which to look into the hearts and minds of sentient beings to know their intentions. That fact not withstanding, I do not think it is within the scope or experience-founded ability of this committee to determine the feasibility of executing the programs and projects within the defense budget."

"But", countered Rozier, "at the same time we do have a fiduciary responsibility to the population, human and Zentraedi, that we are not opening the purse to pay for the very knife that will cut our throats."

"As I have said, Mr. Chairman", Breetai replied calmly, "every safeguard that can be implemented is in place to protect against such an incident occurring again- complying with the findings and recommendations of both military and senatorial investigations."

"Yet that's little consolation to the families of over six hundred human crew members of the _Warren._ "

The stern, commanding voice came (ironically perhaps) from the right wing gallery of the committee chamber. Camera strobes flashed and conversations swelled as attention was drawn in that direction.

The owner of the voice appeared every bit as stern and commanding as he sounded. Human, the man stood over two meters tall and with his moderately age-softened brawn was nearly half that around at the shoulders and chest giving him the general appearance of a tree stump left standing unusually high. His perfectly bald head shone like his dark eyes and the high boots he wore. The uniform between was pressed with creases sharp as razors, spotless, and adorned with enough medals and ribbons to stoop a less powerful man. The uniform was not Robotech Defense Forces though- it was Army of the Southern Cross, and the man was General Marcus Merill Leonard.

General Leonard stepped into the aisle between the rows of seats in the gallery, nearly filling it. His subordinates- two of them that Breetai could see- remained behind. Leonard never required support when grandstanding, and that was what he appeared to be about to do. How he had gotten into the session was no mystery- it had been open to the public and seats were available to those who had arrived early enough to claim them. How he had escaped attention up to that point was a greater mystery to Breetai, and how he had suppressed the temptation to draw attention to himself an even greater one.

Leonard had a way of sneaking up on you- much like his Army of the Southern Cross. The "army" teetered constantly on the cusp of legitimacy and was more realistically called an affiliation of provincial militias with their base of power in the southern North America, Central America, and South America sectors. Originally a stopgap measure, following the Holocaust, to quell uprisings from the marooned Zentraedi elements in those areas in a time when the RDF was combat ineffective- the ASC had retained its popularity with local governments and survived the reconstitution of the RDF. In no small part it had been Leonard's astute conviction to see to the localized defense of provinces and to attend to their needs that had gained him almost fanatical support amongst the people of the regions the ASC dominated. So much so that representatives and senators from those provinces and districts had kept the ASC alive through modest congressional funding and federal supply. Political attempts by RDF supporters in the legislature to isolate and minimize the ASC through caps on funding were thwarted by the additional funding received by the militias from their protectorate regions.

The Army of the Southern Cross was a loose affiliation at best, lacking the hierarchy of the RDF's structure, and the clear mandate and blessing of the Government- but it was nonetheless a real force in the mending world to be reckoned with.

At the center of it all, in every important decision made and action taken, was General Leonard.

Senator Rozier could tolerate only a single soap box per forum, and it was the one that he himself had intended to stand on. Leonard's presence was certain to take the session in another direction if not quickly checked. The General's appearance had also, oddly enough, made he and Breetai temporary allies. Neither would benefit from allowing Leonard to voice his position.

"General Leonard", Rozier said, summoning all the authority he could muster into his voice, "As an observer, you are welcome to attend this committee session. You have not requested, nor have you been granted the permission to speak or question the witness. This forum does not provide for an open question session, and-."

"I won't be long, Senator.", General Leonard said, cutting the chairman short, "I will speak my peace briefly and leave."

"You will _not_ ", Rozier countered, his face going plum in color, "or you will be removed."

Leonard ignored the senator and approached the floor of the chamber, nearing the table where Breetai sat without making any signs of physical confrontation. In fact, Leonard's body language spoke volumes to say that Breetai's presence was purely coincidental to his purpose.

"Six hundred dead, times two put overboard in lifeboats and surviving only by the grace of God and the sheer luck that a frigate should be passing close enough to detect them at long range.", Leonard quickly recounted the gross details of the incident that had troubled the world fourteen months earlier, "And to make matters worse, a new cruiser with our finest technology and some of our most secretive codes stolen by the allegedly reformed Zentraedi officers and members of the crew."

Rozier motioned to the chamber steward, saying, "We will require security , please."

"When will social philosophers realize that it requires more than two months of pretty speeches, seminars, and hand-holding to bring the Zentraedi out from their conditioned ways?"

Breetai rose from his chair, refusing to sit before Leonard as he paced in his tirade.

"I believe we are all familiar with your methods of reform, General Leonard.", Breetai said, his voice controlled but a noticeable edge now on it, "Brutality and oppression have never in your history proven reliable means of control over the long term. You may beat the local Zentraedi populations into submission briefly, but you have no hope of maintaining that control. The _Warren_ incident was a tragic and glaring anomaly- and not the norm. Zentraedi, when given the option and given fair, decent treatment are as likely to choose a life of peace in a greater community as human beings. You are not smothering a fire, General, you are simply sweeping over the embers that will continue to smolder."

"We have Zentraedi in our ranks as well.", Leonard said, addressing the chamber and the galleries and not Breetai directly, "But our supervision and reconditioning of them has been more strict. Coming from the knowledge that the alternative to pacification and socialization is dire, they appreciate better the opportunities afforded them. They could be a great force for world defense if we were not limited by those who would strangle us with restrictions."

Breetai shook his head. Leonard's play into the real purpose of his appearance was rushed and sloppy for the officer, but security could be seen massing at the entrance through which Breetai himself had entered the chamber. Leonard knew he didn't have much time to get it all out and be heard.

"So this comes down to racism and money then?", Breetai asked.

"No.", replied Leonard, speaking for the first time in acknowledgment of the Military Chief of Staff, under whose umbrella of authority he did not reside, "This has to do with control and management of our society as we rebuild it. Will Zentraedi adapt and conform to our society, or will our society adapt and conform to theirs? The proposed defense budget is a straw man of the mechanism of the Robotech Masters' expansionist doctrine- and who better to fill the billets?"

Breetai's temper was slipping as the security team approached the floor.

"That statement is both irresponsibly unfounded and offensive, General Leonard…"

"-While at the same time whole human populations who have not chosen to follow this agenda have been denied fair and equal consideration in the areas of reconstruction and rationing-."

Leonard noted the proximity of the security team. Sensitivity to the authority that Leonard represented had persuaded them to leave their side arms and holsters with other guards outside the entrance- but their expressions still spoke of serious business.

Leonard clasped his hands together, like a professor concluding a successful lecture, "I'm finished here. Thank you for your time, Mr. Chairman."

 **A.R.M.D II Space Station "Archer 42"**

The mess room was quiet with the exception of the audio from the viewscreen on the wall opposite the coffee, beverage, and ice cream dispensers. A dozen tables with bench seating filled the center of the room four deep and three abreast. At each table were seated several enlisted crew and the occasional junior officer. Lunch had just been served and the smell still hung in the compartment like the thin, omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke despite the constant effort of the air circulation and purification system. Cups sat on the tables near these men and women, filled with their beverage of choice, as they attended to their various businesses. Many had operational or technical manuals that they studied. Others were in the process of writing reports or finishing paperwork in the time they could find between their other duties. Some smoked, others tolerated the sanctioned habit of their comrades. Most ignored the television feed on the viewscreen.

The camera providing the image to the news broadcast panned to follow as General Leonard was escorted by security guards out of the committee session he had disrupted. Even as the officer passed into the shadows, the sheen of his bald head marked his position. The image was joined by a voice-over from the anchorwoman-

"That was the scene earlier as Army of the Southern Cross General Marcus Leonard was removed from a Senate Committee hearing on budget appropriation-. The session, intended to address questions regarding the proposed Ministry of Defense budget-."

Master Chief Petty Officer Terrance O'Toole tapped the ashes of his cigarette into an ashtray that was in particular need of emptying before folding his meaty forearms onto the tabletop. He watched the final frames of Leonard's head glowing in the darkness, not listening to what the reporter had to say. He instead added his own soundtrack, saying in a thick, nasal voice, " _We must destroy them-. We must incinerate them-. Pig by pig, cow by cow, village by village-. I do hate them, those Nabobs-._ "

Looking to his right for a reaction from the man seated next to him, and seeing none, O'Toole resumed his normal Chicago-tainted voice, asking, "Don't like my Brando, Commander?"

"Mmm.", the lieutenant commander grunted neutrally, "Do you do _The Godfather_ , Chief?"

"Only after a bottle of chianti, sir."

Lieutenant Commander Thomas Jefferson Queffle (given his middle name from his mother's maiden name and not in homage to the figure from U.S. history) worked with a thin notebook computer reviewing personnel proficiency and conduct reports that would be due to the personnel command in a few days time. It was yet another mundane, routine task in a never-ending series of mundane and routine tasks that went with command of an Astro Ready Missile Defense, or A.R.M.D. space station, and part of the conditions of his stay in purgatory for his sins- real or perceived.

Unlike the Chief, senior NCO on the station of a hundred and sixty personnel, LCR Queffle had been listening to most of the excerpts from the committee session as he worked, smoked, and drank his coffee. His interest in the "4kF20" program was keener than O'Toole's- more personal, though he never voiced the interest.

"That Leonard guy-.", O'Toole mused, puffing on his cigarette the way a child might play at a candy cigarette, "-He strikes me as the kind of guy who could be a real cocksucker."

Queffle liked O'Toole and was constantly amazed by his grasp on the obvious.

O'Toole paused in thought, "Say, can you call a superior officer in _another_ military a cocksucker?"

Queffle looked over at the Chief from his works, "Only if you show respect when you say it- same rules apply."

"Ah.", said O'Toole fitting the nugget of knowledge into his grander schema. The Chief was the workhorse that was lead on the team, and he could wax philosophic or speak with authority on almost any issue professional or other- but he did sometimes go off on tangents, Queffle knew.

"Still, you gotta wonder deep down", O'Toole continued in the tone that indicated to Queffle that he was about to begin on one of those tangents, "Leonard may have a point about those Zentraedi."

O'Toole always preceded "Zentraedi" with "those" in a way that he never did, to Queffle's knowledge, with other ethnicities or species.

"You figure", O'Toole continued to ramble, "all they ever done is fight. All they really know how to do is fight. Then on top of that toss being stuck into a group of folks who don't care too much for you or think that much of you for that matter-. Having to try to bond. Can you imagine being trapped in that?"

Queffle's fingers stopped moving on the keys of his computer for a moment, "Yeah. Yeah, I can actually."

Realization flashed across O'Toole's face and it turned apologetic, "Hey- sorry, Commander, I wasn't saying-. You know me, I just talk outta my ass sometimes."

"Forget it, Chief. No harm done."

The PA speakers in the mess room popped alive and the sound was followed by the attention tone.

"CO, contact the radio shack, please."

Queffle checked his watch and felt a rush of excitement. He snapped the screen of his computer shut and swept it under his arm in a single motion as he rose from the bench seat and pushed his glasses back higher on his nose.

"Hot date?", asked the Chief.

Queffle smiled grimly, "Not until the divorce papers clear. Do me a favor, Chief, get down to the hangar and stand on Chief Yusef for me- he was supposed to have his report on aircraft readiness in the squadron to me by thirteen hundred-. It's, what?- almost fourteen-hundred."

"Aye sir.", O'Toole said, rubbing out his cigarette as he got to his feet.

The Chief left the mess for a side passageway as Queffle went to an intercom phone on the wall and rang up the communications center.

"Radio shack."

"CO, here.", Queffle said, "You have a call for me?"

"Aye sir. Captain Billings from OCNO. Should I patch it in to you there, sir?"

"No.", Queffle said looking around and finding with some relief that his conversation was drawing no attention, "Send it to my quarters. I'll be there in a minute."

"Aye sir."

Queffle hung up the phone, and computer under arm walked briskly out the same doorway through which the Chief had passed a moment earlier.

The passageways of Archer 42, of all of the A.R.M.D. II class space stations, were cramped to the point where Queffle, a man of medium stature and medium build, could not have passed his twin coming the other way without one or the other turning to the side. Furthermore, the clusters of pipes and bundles of cables running through the walls and ceilings of the passages added a sense of confinement within the guts of a beast not purely organic or mechanical. The A.R.M.D. IIs were considered stuffy and uncomfortable, even by the crews of the Fleet's smallest frigates and corvettes- they were the last choice of duty stations when there was a choice.

Paradoxically opposed to the eagerness of most servicepersons to serve on an A.R.M.D. was the importance of the role they played in planetary defense. Much of the cause of misery aboard the station was, despite the consistently superior rations of food, the constant availability of vice and luxury goods like chocolate and cigarettes, and the ten percent pay incentive above hazardous duty pay received by the crews- the largest consumer of space, the reason for the station's being, and the cause of the cramped living and operating conditions were the missiles.

The A.R.M.D.s, 160 in all, circling the Earth in super, sub, and equatorial geo-synchronous orbits peered out and listened to the solar system with the most sophisiticated active and passive sensor systems that technology could produce. They watched and listened in cooperation with earth-based systems and interplanetary listening posts for the slightest signs of alien fleet movements toward the homeworld.

If detected, and should the threat enter their range, any alien craft would find itself the target of the A.R.M.D. II's arsenal. Its primary offensive capability was built around the four, 40 tube, cluster launchers containing the Mk-4 "Pegasus" anti-ship missile. Propelled from their tubes by a small, single-stage, solid rocket motor- the Pegasus would then be driven to its target- up to 450,000 kilometers away, by a sub-light drive engine capable of 45% the speed of light.

The 12 m x 1.2m weapon was standard ordinance to nearly all classes of REF vessel, and variants adapted for ground launch filled both new earth-based silos and those once occupied by the ICBMs of old Earth nations. The missiles aboard the A.R.M.D.s however, like those in the silos, delivered the largest warhead in the military arsenal. Each weapon delivered a 50 megaton thermonuclear warhead to target- either a single warship or a clustered formation if possible.

Once the A.R.M.D. II's complement of missiles was exhausted, it mounted two batteries, of synchro cannons with which to engage approaching enemy warships. Smaller versions of the _SDF-1_ 's legendary "reflex cannon", these energy weapons were capable of destroying even the largest of Zentraedi vessels with a single blast at ranges out to 120,000 kilometers.

The A.R.M.D II boasted a variety of defensive systems, including an energy barrier system, powerful ECM systems, anti-aircraft lasers and missile launchers, and a squadron of the most recent generation of Veritech fighters- the Alpha.

Still, despite the formidable arsenal, the crews of the space stations referred to themselves in that gallows humor sometimes found in the most forward-deployed units, as the "90 Second Club"- the commonly (not officially) assumed time the stations would survive in the face of a full-scale, Holocaust scenario, Zentraedi attack.

With cheery fatalism, the A.R.M.D. II stations were never wanting for volunteers despite the conditions and the general consensus that the station duty was the backwaters of the REF Fleet.

Days and nights, with no distinction between, were endless cycles of study, review, practice, drill, and maintenance of the station and its systems in the event that the call would ever come to employ the awesome weapons it was home to. Like the crews of ballistic missile submarines of the recent past, this occupied the time of the crews. Outside of these duties, there was little to do but enjoy the meager recreation and fitness facilities, and wait. Like the crews of the "boomers" also, the "90 Second Club" bore the burden admirably and with quiet pride for their personal sacrifices.

Queffle passed a ladder tube that connected all four of Archer 42's decks on his way to the officers' quarters. The officers' quarters space was actually only across the corridor and down a short passage from the petty officers quarters and enlisted berthing areas. Queffle, holding the illustrious position of commanding officer, was entitled to the only stateroom aboard the station that was not shared.

Queffle entered his small living space through a sliding door that was never locked. There was no need to secure the door- crews on the A.R.M.D. platforms were notoriously respectful of the private space and property of others- even more so than within other commands in the Fleet. Privacy existed only in one's rack for most, and as such was fiercely guarded and defended by all.

A bunk, a wall mounted dresser/closet, a desk with a computer workstation, and a viewscreen that could be switched from command function displays to recreational use were the contents of the stateroom. Queffle had not adorned the battleship grey metal walls with decorations or "personal touches" as most of the crew did. That, in his mind, would have been a sign that he had made Archer 42 his home and had an intention to stay.

Queffle sat in his chair and flipped open the screen panel of the videophone.

As he opened the line, the lieutenant commander was greeted by a clean image of an REF captain at work in his office space. The man, slightly older and heavier than Queffle took a moment to realize the lieutenant commander had joined him on the line.

"Captain, sir.", Queffle said as he was recognized.

"Tom.", replied the captain, pushing something on his desk away as he turned his attention to the junior officer, "How are things?"

"That's what I was hoping you'd tell me, Gary. How are things?"

Captain Billings' lips tightened in a discouraged expression that made Queffle's heart sink. He had his answer already.

"Not good, Tom- for this round, the answer is no."

Queffle ran both hands through his well-kept black hair that was showing signs of thinning on top, "Jesus, Gary- I thought you were pulling strings for me."

"I was, and I did, Tom- but Hughes pulls the rope."

Queffle's stomach clenched at the sound of the name of the insurmountable obstacle to his way back into the Fleet proper.

"What do I need to do, Gary? I was fourth in my class at the Academy, I've got my SpaWO pin with tactical and strategic certifications, Fleet hasn't put out a command correspondence course that I haven't aced a clean five on-. I've got top marks on every P&C report in my jacket- except one. You're telling me I can't even land a TAO billet on a frigate?"

Billings face grew stern and grave, "Yeah, Tom, that's what I'm telling you. You've got one bad P&C in your jacket, and an official letter of reprimand that just happens to be linked to the death of the CNO's only son."

Queffle began to roll his eyes, but caught himself. Such displays wouldn't advance his cause.

"Listen, Gary- the board of inquiry even said that it was an accident and not the result of anything that I, or anyone else either did or didn't do. Short version- _not my fault_. The worst I did was to leave that detail in command of a junior officer with clear instructions."

"Yes, Tom, I know.", Billings agreed, "I remember- I testified to the board, remember? But here's the kicker- that junior officer was an Admiral's son. The board found it to be an accident, and didn't assign fault to you- but Hughes saw it differently and still does. Simply put, no skipper is going to fight to get you aboard knowing that the Chief of Naval Operations looks unfavorably on you. Now, next month we've got another twenty ships being commissioned- all needing officers and crews."

"And how will that round of assignments be any different, Gary?", Queffle despaired.

"I'm not promising it will be, Tom- but I'll keep trying for you.", Billings said, "You've got to give this time- it's been, what?- sixteen months?"

"Seventeen."

"All the same. Hughes still steams over this from time to time. I got you a station command, didn't I?"

"That's because Hughes was hoping that I'd wither up and die here.", Queffle countered.

"Maybe- but it's a command and it looks good in your jacket.", Billings said, "Plus, word is that Hughes may be moving to another job-."

"Really?"

"Don't pop mahogany yet, Tom- it's just talk right now. But if he does, COs on some of those new ships may see a guy with your qualifications as a valuable commodity once there's no shadow of a fuming CNO hanging over you."

Queffle relented, feeling embarrassed suddenly for railing against his best advocate, "Hey, Gary- you know I appreciate-."

Billings shook his head, "No worries- don't mention it. I wouldn't have gotten my SpaWO pin without you- not that it's done me much good here. Anyway, I know the Fleet will benefit from getting you back out there- no matter what Hughes thinks."

Queffle nodded, "Alright. Thanks."

"Sure.", Billings said, then after hesitating, asked, "Have you heard from Stacey lately?"

Queffle laughed, "Have to open all the wounds, don't you? Yeah, she still hates me and wants half of what little I have."

"You're getting off light, Tom. Count your blessings."

"Yeah, I have so many."

"With that happy thought", Billings said, "I'm late for a briefing from my staff. Gotta go. Out."

The screen flickered to black and then defaulted to the dialing prompt.

Queffle snapped the screen shut with a loud click.

"Swell."

" **The Outlandss", Eastern Nevada Province**

To the impulsive, the sight of a Zentraedi Battle Pod moving across the sun-baked scrub of The Outlandss would have been alarming at the least.

More careful examination, had the alarmed chosen to remain in line of sight long enough to do so, would have revealed that the machine was not Zentraedi at all- but the quickly yet shrewdly adapted variant of the Regult- designated the MBP-4 "Ironhead".

Offensive to many military technology design purists, and a handful of other groups because of its Zentraedi roots and all that they symbolized- the MBP-4 had been designed and put into rapid production as a necessary evil. Following the cataclysm of the Holocaust, there had been a great need for a rugged means of bringing formidable fighting capabilities to a wide variety of environments and terrains that either naturally or by damage sustained in the Zentraedi attack were impassible to conventional vehicles.

The Regult had proven its unequaled deftness at negotiating such terrain already and was deemed a quick solution to the identified requirements that could be rapidly mass produced. The basic chassis was retained with very few noticeable modifications, though the main bulk of the mecha- the former pilot's compartment- now devoid of the need to seat a pilot averaging fifteen to twenty meters in height, was redesigned for the use of humans and micronized Zentraedi.

The high intensity particle beam cannons of the Regult had been kept by the human design team of the MBP-4, preserving the "antennae" of the Regult's somewhat bug-like appearance. That was where general physical similarities.

Gone was the bulbous body of the Regult designed to afford space to its giant pilot. The Ironhead carried atop its ostrich-like Regult legs, a more boxy, angular body, incorporating both sloping armor and a multi-layer composite material hull derived from old Earth battle tank technology. Still not as robust as a tank, or as one of the older generations of lumbering RDF Destroids, the Ironhead was still far more combat-survivable for its commander, pilot, and gunner than its Zentraedi relative.

With the increased protection had also come modifications to the weapons systems. Complementing the particle beam armaments, the Ironhead design team had added an outrigger weapons sponson to either side of the hull. Each stubby "wing" structure had three articulated hard points that could carry a variety of available weapons or sensor packages.

Concealed within blisters on the hull above the sponsons were the multi-purpose missile launchers that regularly carried the powerful, ground-to-ground, anti-mecha

"Hellfire III" eight to a launcher. Less sophisticated than its latest generation air-to-air cousins, the Hellfire III retained the qualities that made its predecessors famous- sufficient acquisition and homing sensors and logic, superior ground-to-ground range, and a warhead powerful enough to kill any enemy on the battlefield.

Answering the requirement to carry as much firepower forward as could be accommodated by the unit, the Ironhead's final armament specification was a swivel mount located atop and to the rear of the hull on which a variety of gun pods, rocket, or missile launchers could be carried to add that much more "teeth" to the machine's bite.

The MBP-4 Ironhead was still an awkward and odd-looking mecha that remained eerily similar to its Zentraedi forerunner. Many human troops took to sharing the same side of a battlefield with the Ironhead slowly- while many indoctrinated Zentraedi found the vaguely familiar form reassuring.

Sergeant First Class Blair Fenton was accustomed enough to operating in mixed units with an Ironhead that he didn't pay any mind to their similarities to the Zentraedi war machines. When he looked back at the single Ironhead in the column, he only saw another tool of the trade that had earned a little respect in Fenton's mind by saving his skin on more than one occasion. Like the five Wolverine land rovers and the six "8/4s" (grunt jargon for the eight-wheeled, four metric ton capacity utility and cargo trucks) in the convoy the Ironhead was painted in the molted beige, sand, and gray-green desert scheme- giving it some ability to blend into the landscape if seen at some distance by the naked eye. Fenton paid little attention to the machine itself though- barely noticing anymore the comparatively heavy thud of the mechanical feet behind his Wolverine through the well padded and supported cushion of the passenger seat.

Fenton had been in The Outlandss almost from the beginning, and had been around for the first patrols and supply distribution details to the remote pockets of surviving humanity. He had been shot at and ambushed by both humans and Zentraedi in that time. He had shot back at both in kind. Fenton, somewhat gleefully, also recounted to anyone who would listen about the time he had been bitten by a mule. He'd seen some of his people killed, and killed at least ten highwaymen including four Zentraedi as well. Still, despite this, despite the damage to the land caused by the Zentraedi attack that left great expanses looking like lunar landscape, and despite the often piteous specimens of humanity encountered in the waste- Fenton felt compelled to stay. It wasn't simply the stock answer of, "I like to help people.", that so many gave when asked why they volunteered repeatedly for duty in The Outlands. It was the land itself to Fenton. Brutalized as it was, it brought him back to his boyhood in Arizona with the perfectly clear, deep blue skies that swept from horizon to horizon over boundless reaches of baked brown earth shimmering with the heat of the desert sun.

"Pack Rat One, this is Four. We have Distribution Point Echo on bearing zero-three-seven. Looks quiet.", reported the commander of the lead Wolverine to Lt. Briggs in the rover directly ahead of Fenton's.

"Copy that, Four.", came Briggs' voice over the radio, "Approach from the south. We'll thin the lines when we get to within two kliks. No need to create our own traffic jam."

Behind the Wolverine's wheel with his hands gripped carefully at ten and two was Corporal Hailey. Looking too young to hold a learner's permit, the corporal was probably able to do more with the six-wheeled, six-wheel drive land rover than any driver Fenton had worked with. Almost as important to Fenton was the fact that Hailey was easy on the jaw-jacking during the "long rolls" through The Outlandss. He could talk, certainly, and for 23 he could even be interesting on any number of topics- but he had the quality of being able to shut up and just pursue the horizon.

Driver, passenger, and the gunner at the M-26 heavy assault laser weapon in the Wolverine's hardcover top swivel-mount hadn't said more than six words between them in as many hours. Fenton had noticed in the past hour though, and more so since the transmission between the Wolverine on point and Briggs' ride that Hailey was showing a progressively growing grin.

"Hey, Hailey", the private at the gun called down through the open hatch, "This is the place- right?"

Hailey nodded- not that the private could see this, the sun catching on the sun goggles strapped to his face beneath the cover of his helmet, "Yeah, but I don't-. Hey, Sarge, you think the LT will wanna camp local tonight?"

Fenton shrugged, beginning to understand. There were only a few things that could keep a 23-year old interested in staying in The Outlandss after a seven day supply distribution deployment, "Maybe-. I suppose it comes down to how long it takes to drop the supplies and have the medics check over the locals. Its two days back to base camp any way you slice it, so sure- maybe. You got a hot date lined up here or something?"

Hailey shrugged, his grin widening, "Nothing definite, but I didn't do too badly last time we stopped in Chavez Station."

Fenton chuckled, appreciating the priorities of youth and realizing that his lust of the past two days had been getting back to base camp for a warm shower in the wash tent and a cup of coffee that didn't come from a packet in an MRE pouch.

"That's borderline criminal, you know, Hailey.", Fenton said, "Taking advantage of the female population because you have the food."

Hailey shook his head, "No, it ain't like that, Sarge- I never went looking for a thing. But what can I say?… The chuck wagon rollin' in makes more than their mouths water, and then add in my own natural magnetism…"

"It's mostly the food.", said the private at the gun.

"Shut up, Dawson-!", Hailey snapped, "I should'a never told you a thing! For the past three days Sarge, it's been _Chavez Station this_ , and _Chavez Station that_. Bastard can't get laid back in the world, so he's gotta go to the Big O to get his weasel greased."

Fenton looked at Hailey and then craned his neck to look back at Dawson's mid-trunk and lower body, "On the QT, I'd heard you were seeing that Philipino gal, the one from Supply with the big-." Fenton used both hands to complete the statement by hefting two, heavy invisible objects in front of his chest.

"-Sweater cows?", suggested Hailey, not opting for Fenton's subtlety of suggestive gesture.

Dawson groaned, "How'd you know that?"

Fenton replied as though conveying common knowledge, "Sergeants know everything. That'd be a _yes_."

"Yeah", snorted Dawson through his particularly large, sun-baked nose, "For what it's worth-. I've only gotten my fingers stinky- like, _once_. Maybe I'm ugly or something?"

"You're ugly.", agreed Hailey.

"To the bone.", Fenton seconded, "Enough of this though- I shouldn't be letting you talk about a sister enlisted person like this. Just do me a favor and don't catch some weird disease while you're out here. Your mothers would come after me, I know it."

Hailey followed the two Wolverines before him in a turn north.

Chavez Station, called that for reasons that Fenton neither knew nor cared though he had never met anyone by that name in his dozen or more visits, had cropped up as many settlements in The Outlands had- on the sites of old towns. The humble remains of three cinderblock buildings that had likely been stores on a main street before the Holocaust were the anchoring point of Chavez Station, on which the rest of the settlement had grown like a coral reef. Structures of wood and metal scrap, and even the rediscovered material of adobe brick comprised the thirty or so buildings of the station and served as dwellings, artisans' shops, and storage.

The structures of the station were not visible atop the gentle rise in the desert from where the supply convoy approached. Chavez Station had survived, and even bordered on flourishing for two reasons. A crude palisade of rusting steel I-beams, planted some three meters in the earth and jutting outward at a 45 degree angle formed a perimeter two hundred meters outside of the walls of the station. Not a proper "fence" by any stretch of the imagination, the beams were spaced sufficiently though to prevent the rapid approach of any vehicle (or giant for that matter) from any direction but the gateway to the south.

Surrounding the settlement directly, a makeshift wall had been erected of old automobiles, buried by the nose with the rear two to two-and-half meters protruding belly-out. Scrap steel and other metals had been spot-welded or affixed with bolts to provide for additional structural integrity and protection. Fenton knew, and had admired the defensive thinking of the builders at putting a raised platform along the entire inside area of the settlement's walls. Against a professional military assault, the defensive measures were well-meaning but crude- though they did provide adequate deterrence to the real threat of The Outlands- highwaymen.

As the walls of Chavez Station took form on the bluff beyond the palisade, Fenton could make out the corner towers in the wall- simple enclosed observation and defense platforms- and the other attribute that had allowed the settlement to take hold. Rising from the center of the station was sturdily constructed (perhaps over-engineered) windmill tower. Its six long blades that Fenton had learned early on had come from the wreckage of two separate military cargo helicopters, destroyed circa the Holocaust, spun lazily in the desert wind. The shaft they drove in turn powered a simple, yet fanatically maintained suction pump that drew water from a deep aquifer and provided clean, radiation-free drinking water to the station in abundance.

Fenton, though he did love the rugged beauty of the desert, could never understand the mindset of people like the inhabitants of Chavez Station in remaining in The Outlands. At the same time though, it was the ingenuity of their kind that gave him the hope that humankind would pull itself up again.

"I always expect that Max guy to meet us at the door, Sarge.", Hailey said as the lead Wolverine crossed through the palisade gate followed at two lengths by Briggs' vehicle.

"Mad Max", Fenton corrected, "And how would you know?- Those movies were before your time. –Hell, they were pretty much before _my_ time."

"Shit, who needs to see it? We _live_ it."

"Sure, well let me know if you see Tina Turner.", Fenton said putting on his helmet in preparation to dismount, "I do love legs."

As the MBP-4 behind Fenton's Wolverine crossed the palisade gateway, a solid curtain of dust raced up, immediately exceeding the mecha's height, as a powerful explosion kicked the sergeant's vehicle up by the rear. The Ironhead's leading leg sank dropped straight down beneath it as a concealed platform whose supports had just been remotely blown buckled beneath the machine's weight. The Ironhead crashed in to the hip joint of the left leg, its trailing right leg bending back at its hip joint to its full extension. The blunt nose of the mecha plowed into the dry earth and settled in a half-roll to the left as it was rendered immobile.

" _Oh shit!_ ", Fenton heard escape his own lips before the four rear wheels of his Wolverine had even touched ground again.

Ahead, large clouds of dust leapt from the ground as heavy projectiles zeroed in on the three light-armored vehicles. Hailey, not needing prompting had already thrown the wheel left and stepped on the gas as the hood and windshield of Lt. Briggs' Wolverine exploded with fragments of metal and glass.

Fenton saw that the lead Wolverine had ground to a halt, black smoke pouring from the engine as the three troops inside fell out the leeward doors. The gunner on Briggs' Wolverine had begun to open up wildly in return, as had Dawson just behind Fenton's seat.

It was at this point that Fenton first heard the heavy, rapid thud of a .50 caliber heavy machinegun mingled with the metallic clang of the armor-piercing bullets shredding his land rover's engine. Hailey's arms tensed noticeably on the steering wheel as the steering froze. The windshield imploded in a spray of shatter-resistant glass, and the Wolverine was at rest.

" _Out!_ ", Fenton barked, pushing Hailey toward his door that was now at a perpendicular angle to the enfilade.

The corporal fell out of his door, somehow taking his M-19 laser rifle with him as he went. Clutching his own weapon, Fenton began to follow over the gear-shift and central transmission hump when he heard the screaming.

Looking to his left into the rear of the Wolverine, Fenton could still see Dawson's lower body in the swivel turret's seat. Only the private's hands were no longer on the M-26, but clutching at his right leg just above the knee. Below his grasp, the desert camouflage pattern of his BDU trousers and body armor had gone red with the blood that pumped in spurts out from between his fingers.

Fenton tossed his rifle out the open driver's door, nearly striking Hailey in the head as he turned to assist. The sergeant pulled the wounded gunner's legs out from under him and had him half out the door before he had thudded to the floor.

Hailey half-carried, half-dropped the wailing private to the ground as Fenton spilled out onto the sand.

" _Shit!_ ", spat the corporal, a profusion of saliva and blood flying from his lips, "He's hit bad!.."

Pulling binoculars from a pouch at his hip, Fenton noticed the blood on Hailey's face, "You hit?!"

"Bit my fuckin' lip!", the corporal replied as he tore into the meager supplies of his first aid kit.

Fenton rose up just enough to peer through the binoculars over the smoking hood of his vehicle. From along the inside platform of the station's south wall, he could make out forms- some human, some clearly too large to be anything but micronized Zentraedi- poised with weapons at the level. Muzzle flashes indicated that they were carrying both old-style assault rifles as well as newer laser weapons. At either of the southern corner towers, the larger flash of heavy machinegun fire coincided with the deep report of "Ma Deuce". Perhaps the one consistency from old Earth that remained in The Outlands- food and medicine might be scarce in a region, but the determined could always find weapons.

The report of the M-2 .50 caliber machinegun was drowned out by the ear-splitting pound of the immobilized Ironhead's top-mounted, 120mm auto-cannon. Through his binoculars, Fenton saw the southwest corner of the settlement wall- tower and all- vanish in a shower of metal under a hail of high-explosive cannon rounds. The path of fire from the auto-cannon began to sweep right, easily reducing the wall as the attackers behind it fled the path. The rapid crack of the mecha's particle beam cannons joined the boom of the auto-cannon as energy salvos split the air on the same path as the cannon shells.

The southeast tower was partially obscured in a white puff of smoke as a rocket raced out from the platform and crossed above and to the right of Fenton. An explosion powerful enough to bounce his head against the Wolverine's side rolled over him, and when he turned, he saw that the Ironhead's sensor eye had been crudely blown away.

Hailey tugged at Fenton's shoulder, yelling over the exchange of fire, "We gotta get Dawson outta here, Sarge! I tied it off tight, but he's still bleedin' like a sonofabitch!"

Fenton glanced quickly at the small but spreading pool of blood beneath the now shock-dazed private's leg.

A quick survey of his surroundings found all three troops of the point Wolverine to be returning fire from behind their vehicle. Resistance from Briggs' rover had ceased, and Fenton could see the gunner slumped over his weapon. To his rear, outside the palisade, one of the remaining two Wolverines and all six of the 8/4s were immobilized under a rising haze of smoke- most likely victims of the .50 machineguns. There was no sign of the last Wolverine. To the northwest, beyond the bluff, and beyond the palisade Fenton suspected, clouds of dust were rising- doubtlessly the result of vehicles on the move.

They were immobile, and in the process of being encircled.

"Gabriel, Gabriel- this is Pack Rat Two.", Fenton said clearly and as calmly as possible into his radio, calling on the command and control aircraft that was on station somewhere in the distant sky, "We're being ambushed at Supply Point Echo. We've got people down and we are pinned. Request immediate air support and med-evac of wounded. Over."

"Pack Rat Two, this is Gabriel. Routing fast movers to your position now. ETA three minutes. Hang tight, Pack Rat- they're on their way."

Flying a Valkyrie at 50,000 feet and at a speed of 1,200 knots was to Winters analogous to floating on billowed silk. The sky hung above, concave in deep blue, and the Earth below was a convex expanse of uniform tan. At this altitude, the only terrain features visible were the more substantial ridges and valleys- and of course the craters from Zentraedi energy weapons that had pock-marked the desert in the Holocaust and created The Outlands.

At this speed there was no sound from the engines, as _Marilyn_ was outrunning the sound waves as they were created. Only the slight, fine vibration of the turbines and the green lights of the systems status display even indicated that the engines were running. The loudest noise came from Winters' own breathing through his oxygen mask, and periodic beep of the navigation computer as it actually flew the fighter and counted off marker and waypoints in the pre-programmed flight plan.

Looking aft of his starboard wing, and slightly higher, Winters found Buster in his place as #2 of the Diamond-4 formation. Dalton, clearly visible in his cockpit had his head tilted back against the angled pilot's chair headrest. Winters knew he wasn't sleeping, but rather in a semi-conscious doze that all pilots were able to achieve given enough time flying eventless patrols. It was of little concern to Winters anyway, _Taz_ 's (named for and adorned with nose art of the whirling cartoon character) navigation computer was able to maintain the Valkyrie's station as well or better than the human pilot. Scooter and Vice were respectively in the #3, lower left, and #4, "tail-end Charlie" positions.

The flight's westerly course would continue for another twenty-one minutes according to the "time-to-waypoint" counter in the HUD, before they would turn north and then later east to complete the patrol circuit.

"Knight Hawk Leader this is Gabriel."

"Copy you, Gabriel.", Winters replied to the C2 AWACS/JSTAR-EC-33, "Go ahead."

"Knight Hawk Flight is to vector three-five-one at maximum speed for Supply Point Echo. Pack Rat requires ground support and enemy fire suppression. Be advised, gunships and med-evac are inbound from the west- ETA twelve minutes."

"Copy that, Gabriel. Knight Hawk Flight is en route.", Winters said, then passing the order heard by all to his flight, "On my lead, roll right to three-five-one, maintain level, and push it to the stops. Break to pairs- Buster, you're with me. Looks like we get some trade today, chaps."

Winters disengaged his autopilot and eased the stick gently right. At such high speeds only the slightest of maneuvers could be tolerated, but even with the slight turn the new heading came on quickly. As the pilot opened the throttles to the limit, Scooter and Vice intentionally allowed space to open as they paired off. In seconds, the Valkyries had nearly doubled their speed to just under four times the speed of sound.

"Lock and load, Knight Hawks.", Winters instructed, "Master arm switches on, master safeties off."

Winters did himself as he had instructed. The weapons display panel showed all the ordinance _Marilyn_ was carrying to now be at the pilot's ready command. Winters quickly changed the destination marker in the navigation computer to the pre-programmed coordinates of Supply Point Echo. The "time-on-target" display counted down steadily from 143 seconds. And now there was nothing to do but wait.

A familiar tightness, one that had never gone away in all of Winters experience, gripped his stomach and made him glad that he'd partaken only of coffee for breakfast. The tightness spread to his lungs and chest, and caused a tingling in his fingers.

At 100 seconds, time-on-target, with his throat drying and to prevent his mouth from doing the same, Winters applied the only remedy he had found to work. He pursed his lips and began to whistle.

The slightly off-key, but recognizable strains of the old Irish cavalry tune, _Gary Owen_ filled the cockpit. Winters felt the tension ease a little as he reached the end of the first round, and by the beginning of the second found the rest of the flight joining in.

One couldn't argue with tradition.

Sergeant Fenton watched helplessly as the situation continued to unravel around him.

Two soldiers, Fenton could not tell which, from the lead Wolverine in the convoy had emerged from their persistently burning vehicle and were exchanging fire with the ambushing highwaymen as shots presented themselves.

Similarly, the crew of three from the wrecked Ironhead had abandoned their mecha and joined Fenton's crew behind his rover. A warrant officer, and two privates first class- one of whom was out of action from the severe face and neck lacerations inflicted by the resulting spall of the missile hit- were of little immediate use as they were armed with sub-machineguns.

Fenton knew the ideal defensive option would be to drop back to the 8/4s and maximize the firepower of one position. The fact was that he had two immobile wounded, one of them critically, and seventy meters between himself and that one solid defensive position.

Fenton could see where the three scavenged trucks of the highwaymen had stopped short of the 8/4s' left flank to allow their occupants to make use of a scrapheap for cover. The sergeant's view of their right flank was obstructed by the fallen Ironhead, but he was certain their was similar highwayman activity there as the defending troops were trading fire in both directions with equal intensity..

A story a history teacher had told him once in high school came clearly to mind now, about the warriors of the Zulu. Fenton remembered how they would advance on an enemy in a great line, meeting them head on- before swinging their flanks in on the foe in simultaneous pincer movements. A warrior chief had dubbed it "the buffalo horns", and it was unlikely that the highwaymen, human or Zentraedi, had ever heard the story. Nonetheless- Fenton found himself seeing that same tactic from within the horns.

An explosion out on the desert, far behind the defensive position of the 8/4s caused a split second pause in the fighting that was barely perceivable. The first explosion was followed by a second, rolling heavily over the parched land, and was accompanied in a space of moments by two rising columns of tan dust mingling with black smoke.

"Pack Rat Two, this is Knight Hawk Leader- call sign, Jack. We are inbound on your six o'clock position. Be advised, you have a Wolverine northbound to you, minus two bad guys. Can you spot for air support?"

Fenton saw broad grins crack through the fear on the faces of Hailey and the two uninjured men from the Ironhead. He realized he was grinning too. He was fairly certain that Zulus had never had to contend with vertical envelopment.

"Copy you, Jack- and roger that. I can paint the bastards for you down to the man. Be advised, they've taken up positions in a civilian settlement. Repeat, there is a high probability of civilians in the target area. They may also have shoulder fired SAMs. Watch yourself."

"Copy that, Pack Rat. Knight Hawk flight is ten seconds out. You dot `em, we'll blot `em. Light the buggers up, Pack Rat."

Fenton peered through his binoculars again and toggled a control switch on the optics housing. An aiming reticule appeared in his field of view, along with a simple display of range and compass bearing to the center point. The sergeant lay the aiming point on the remaining tower at the southeast corner of the station wall and depressed the laser cue. A small but powerful laser generator in the binoculars shone a dot of invisible light the size of a basketball onto the center mass of the tower platform.

"Target lit, Jack."

Winters saw the world only through the window of the HUD as the station grew in size and detail before him. At 400 knots and as many feet above the desert floor, he'd have a single shot at whatever Pack Rat identified for him before having to circle for another pass.

At Winters' instruction, Vice and Scooter were orbiting the site and preparing for a second run on identified targets. Buster hung at a distance on Jack's tail in a "loose deuce" to cover the leader in the attack and to assist and assess.

Fine details of the structures in the station became visible as the deck swept by below in a blur. Thin laser bolts from infantry rifles, as well as the red dots of tracer fire from a single heavy machinegun rose up from the station and two positions outside the palisade to challenge the pilot. There were signs of movement just inside the station wall and within the complex- but the activity all seemed to be related to the fire directed at the Valkyries.

A missile from high on _Marilyn_ 's port wing streaked by and slammed into the ground short of a cluster of rocks outside the palisade that a handful of highwaymen had been using as a position to strike at a cluster of cargo trucks. The missile's shortfall was no accident though as the casing shattered and flung capsules of plasma napalm forward. A sheet of sun-hot flame burst skyward, washing over the ambushers' position and causing the sand directly in and around its path to first boil and then crystallize into glass.

The knowledge that there were civilians within the same walls made Winters keep a greater distance between his thumb and the trigger on his control stick.

A target indicator box appeared on the southeast tower of the station wall, showing that the fighter's optical sensors, as well as the seeker heads of the two remaining AGM-65-D "Maverick Mk-4" missiles it carried had recognized a laser cue.

Winters selected the target, released the firing point safety, and depressed the trigger in a single action.

Buster, high and to the left rear of Winters watched a billow and tail of white smoke as the missile left the center pylon on _Marilyn_ 's port wing. The weapon homed true, shattering the tower down to the base of its legs before the occupants had the chance to react.

"Good hit.", Dalton announced as the station whipped by beneath, bits of debris still raining down over the southeast corner of the wall where the tower had been a moment before.

Return fire from the southern wall was visible, but sporadic with the pattern showing the wild, disorganized panic that Dalton could imagine the highwaymen feeling.

"We're still getting resistance from that southern wall, Jack.", Dalton reported.

"I saw.", Winters replied, "Vice, Scooter- can you make a run at that wall and knock it down for me?"

Vincenz's voice was calm and business-like, "We're on it, Jack. A little fifty-five millimeter renovation coming up."

Sergeant Fenton still winced at the searing heat from the plasma-napalm strike seventy meters to his rear as the two attacking Valkyries pulled into a 45-degree climb to clear the way for a second assault. The air and ground vibrated with the deep roar of their engines as they quickly slipped out of the reach of the highwaynen's fire and became dots in the sky.

Looking back in the direction of the 8/4s, Fenton saw that the fire had shifted to defending their right flank now with nothing remaining to defend against on the left. Behind the Ironhead's form, a cloud of dust some hundred meters distant was rising and Fenton speculated the outlaws were in retreat having seen the fiery end to their accomplices.

From behind the shelter of the bulky cargo trucks, Fenton saw soldiers displacing and moving forward to his position in pairs. Among the first to arrive was the platoon medic, who had her kit open before she came skidding to a stop at Fenton's side behind his Wolverine.

"Doc, we have these two wounded here and maybe another three in the lieutenant's ride.", Fenton said as the medic nodded her acknowledgement.

Fenton knew the highly trained specialist was not ignoring him, even without the gesture. With her helmet's visor down and radio mike before her lips, Fenton was certain that she was in communication with the surgical unit at whatever base the wounded would be med-evaced to. The images of the wounded and their wounds was being transmitted as the medic worked by the small camera unit mounted to the left side of her helmet. Through her radio and the multi-functional display visor she could receive assistance and instruction including imagery from the surgical team.

Fenton turned his attention to the remaining members of the platoon, eight of whom had joined him forward. Among those rallied, Fenton was pleased to see the face of Sergeant Palacio from 2nd Squad.

"We secure back there?", Fenton asked the other NCO.

"I left four from Third back there with the transport crews.", Palacio replied, her dark face reddened by the sun and the heat of the napalm strike, "Those bastards lost their belly for fighting the second the air cover showed up."

The rising sound of jet turbines drowned out conversation between the NCOs, then it too was lost to a rapid peel of booming explosions. The south wall of Chavez Station disintegrated under a hail of 55mm high-explosive cannon shells as though made of paper mache and not rusting automobile hulks. The attacking fighter ripped the air with the shriek of its engines as it darted past low enough to sweep the rising smoke of its attack in its wake.

"Pack Rat Two, this is Knight Hawk Four, call sign Scooter. Your bad guys seem to be bugging out the rear…. Looks like they cut the palisades to be able to get their vehicles out the back door. They must have known the heat would come down on them."

"Copy that, Scooter.", answered Fenton over the dying rumble of the Valkyrie's engines, "Gabriel, Pack Rat Two…. Where are my gunships and med-evac birds?"

"Pack Rat, Gabriel- your birds are inbound. Three minutes."

Winters watched the dots and dust trails of half a dozen motorized vehicles begin to move away from the north side of Chavez Station. There were some hills and ravines ten kilometers further north- not significant cover but enough to make life tricky for a Valkyrie on the attack. There was little in the way of cover between though, and the highwaymen would have to cross the "between".

"Gabriel, Knight Hawk One- request permission to pursue and engage."

"Knight Hawk One, Gabriel. Negative. Orbit and stay on station until gunship support arrives. We're tracking their movements and will coordinate pursuit. Over."

"I copy.", Winters relented grudgingly, "Have someone put a boot in their asses for me. I was having such a pleasant day-."

Sergeant Fenton shielded his eyes as two UH-7 Lakota med-evac helicopters beat the air into a dusty haze as they lifted into the air from the makeshift landing zone within the palisade perimeter. The wounded had been stabilized for transport and loaded quickly by the crews, and would be in field hospitals inside of fifteen minutes.

Other Lakotas, configured as transports, or "slicks", remained on the LZ rotors still spinning lazily as the platoon of air assault infantry they had carried in as reinforcements continued to sweep the station behind Fenton. The four Aztec attack helicopters that had escorted the "dust off" med-evac choppers, and slicks into the area had continued north under Gabriel's instruction to pursue the highwaymen who had initiated and then fled from the fight.

Fenton burned to be able to load onto the Lakotas with the air assault troops when the call came for them to join in the mopping up of the highwaymen, but he knew he wouldn't have the pleasure. He would have to linger in the rear and see to the troops and equipment now under his command. Cargo slicks would ferry in the parts, tools, and specialists Fenton would need to get the 8/4s and the three salvageable Wolverines rolling again and then it would be the long ride home with scars to show and stories to tell.

As the dust from the two dust-offs settled in the mid-afternoon heat, Fenton could make out the approach of the four Valkyries from the southwest. They flew in tighter pairs now, but at a more leisurely speed it seemed to the sergeant. He watched the two lead Veritechs drop well below the second pair and witnessed their "magic trick" of Robotechnology.

Mid-air, and without a noticeable change in their flight path, the fighters seemed to sprout legs as their engine nacelles swung down at the ambulant joint a meter aft of the intakes. The thruster nozzles, squared and oddly boxy in Fighter mode, opened like the jaws of a pair of pliers to act as feet for the hybrid machine. Arms, stowed during flight as an aircraft along the Valkyrie's belly centerline rotated out and into position under either wing.

Fenton had seen this mechanical metamorphosis before, and knew it to all be no more miraculous than the execution of several hundred-thousand computer programs in the machine's flight and configuration controls- but it still was impressive to see.

Intake slats, placed to minimize the ingestion of dust and debris into the engines, in the tops of the wings and the airframe opened as the two Valkyries slowed to a hover and sank on a cushion of their own thrust to the ground. As the feet made contact, the legs of the "Guardians" at a broad stance, the knees flexed backwards like those of a bird and accepted the weight of the mecha.

The engines of the two craft powered down quickly and in the settling dust, Fenton saw the canopies to the still purely aircraft features of their fuselages open. A single pilot climbed from each cockpit, carefully feeling his way down from a ladder that had dropped from the side of each fuselage.

Fenton jogged the thirty paces to meet them, saluting as he approached.

"Pack Rat Two", Fenton said identifying himself, "Sergeant First Class Fenton. One of you must be Jack?"

Winters removed his helmet and turned it to read his call sign stenciled across the left brow.

"I suppose that's me.", said the lieutenant colonel, returning the NCO's salute, "This is my leftenant, Buster. We thought we'd stretch our legs for a minute. Care to give us the tour?"

Fenton nodded, "Not much to see, Colonel.- Not much that you'd _want_ to see anyway. By the way, thanks."

"Not a word of it, Sergeant.", Winters said as Fenton led he and Dalton toward the demolished wall that Vice had taken down, "That's why they give us the fancy kites and the huge salaries- or so they tell me. Your losses, not too severe I hope."

"Six dead, nine wounded.", Fenton reported soberly, "Lost our lieutenant and five kids all under twenty years old. It coulda been a helluva lot worse if you hadn't gotten here as quick as you did though- so again, thanks."

"Again, don't mention it.", Winters repeated, surveying the twisted and torn nubs of car sticking from the ground that had once been the station's south wall.

Fenton led the way along the path least dense with razor-edged twisted heaps of torn metal. To the sergeant's left, he motioned to three distinct masses that were unidentifiable except to say they were flesh and once had been human by virtue of the pooling of red blood about them.

"A mixed bag here.", Fenton said, "Human and Zentraedi working together. You don't see that often in the outlaw types- sometimes, but not often."

"The social liberals will be thrilled.", Winters said in disgust, partially at the cloud of flies that was beginning to swarm on the mutilated remains.

"Somebody is going to miss that-.", Fenton laughed in the dark humor of one still numbed by a violent episode as he pointed to a leg, clearly micronized Zentraedi by its size and the nub of shredded blue flesh at the upper thigh where the limb abruptly ended.

"That's all you found of him?", Dalton asked.

"Yeah.", Fenton said, "Hell, the way your boy took that wall down, I'm surprised we found that much. You'd be surprised what those weapons you carry do to flesh and bone."

Winters remembered the warning about the civilians that he had received before the attack and felt an old, sick feeling return to his stomach, "I can, actually. Sergeant-."

Fenton pointed to a row of bodies, eighteen in all, mostly human, some micronized Zentraedi, three of each species female.

"Well, I had hoped that you wouldn't see the particulars from your planes up there, but it can be messy.", Fenton said almost apologetically, "These are the ones that didn't make it out. Figure another eight to ten like that mess back there. We'll dig a burial pit out here for `em- maybe even say a few words over the humans."

"Sod `em.", Winters said bitterly, spitting at the nearest Zentraedi form that lay face down in the dirt. Flies circled to investigate the added treat.

"Civilians?", Dalton asked hesitantly.

Winters felt the sickness stab him in the belly, but was glad that it had been Dalton and not he to return the sergeant to the subject.

Fenton swallowed, his hardened face softening slightly with pity for an unspeakable horror.

"We figure they must've come in last night under the guise of being nomads or travelers. You know- let us spend the night and we'll do this job, or that number of hours of work. Sometimes its other things..", Fenton explained, laying out a theory of the plot that had unfolded at Chavez Station, "Probably a half dozen humans- women among `em to lower the guard of the inhabitants. At some point, the others must have moved in from the outside after their moles killed or distracted the station's defenders from the inside. They couldn't`a wanted a fight- the whole idea being to secure what supplies the station had, and still have the place in good enough order to lure us in and jack us for the loot in the trucks. Anyway, it looks like the rogue bastards took the place pretty quickly. There were some bodies, killed by small arms, that weren't our doing. We figure they rounded everyone up in some storage sheds `n… Well, you can imagine."

"Show me.", Winters said, his voice having grown icy.

Dalton's expression was as shocked and unenthusiastic as Fenton's tone, "Colonel, you really don't want to see-."

Winters snapped viciously, "I wasn't soliciting a debate, Sergeant!.."

"Yes sir.", Fenton complied dutifully, "This way."

Hours of decay in the heat of the desert identified the shed Fenton had alluded to before the three men reached it. Flies could be seen flitting in and out of the darkened doorway, a constant drone of their wings to be heard as others inside the structure dinged softly and occasionally off the corrugated metal of the walls.

The smell, not only of rot, but the death smells of blood, urine, feces- the smell of fear became overpowering as Winters approached the door.

"Bastards didn't even shoot them in the heads.", Fenton explained motioning to somewhere between forty and fifty forms under a dozen tarps that someone had scavenged to cover them, "Their throats were slit- probably to save ammo and charge on their laser weapons. The civies we'll bag up and send back for a decent burial."

From beneath the closest tarp, Winters saw a foot smaller than the palm of his hand protruding, clad in a dirty and tattered canvas shoe.

He turned away, the sickness in his belly replaced by a solid, white-hot orb of rage.

Dalton stepped aside to let him pass, trying to be inconspicuous in holding his hand to his nose and mouth to keep down his own gorge…

 **The GS-95 Robotech Factory**

Like all other Robotech Factories in the universe, the GS-95 was unimpressive to behold at a distant glance. Appearing to be a celestial rock body, abundant in the endless reaches of space- which in fact it was, it was what had been built within the asteroid that set it apart from others. Kilometers beneath its surface of nearly impenetrable rock, the Robotech Masters had constructed the means and support to build and sustain their aspirations to conquer the galaxies. Untold thousands of ships had been constructed for the Zentraedi by this very facility, along with the cloning of millions of the giant warriors to crew them.

This was the GS-95's past, and in terms of the service lives of Robotech Factories it was was a relatively unremarkable one.

Where this automated facility differed from all the others of its kind was that it no longer served The Robotech Masters. No longer did it answer the distant calls of Zentraedi fleets in need of refit and replenishment. It now served the race whom the Masters, through the Zentraedi, had sought to destroy for the offense of receiving and salvaging Zor's battle fortress for their own.

It had been a simple operation that had secured the facility for the service of United Earth, and to those who had carried it out it had been extremely suspect that the Masters had given it up so easily.

Breetai knew this- he had been there.

The Zentraedi officer also knew the wasteful character of The Masters though, and knew that the loss of a single Factory was hardly enough to arouse their concern.

General Breetai's trip to the GS-95 was not one of nostalgia though. In fact, the Factory's meticulously kept logs of arriving and departing personnel would not even have revealed that the Military Chief of Staff had been aboard. His visit would not be logged just as the wing of the Factory that he now navigated on foot was not officially acknowledged as "functional".

Breetai turned onto a corridor that had identity of its own only by the markings painted on it to allow personnel to negotiate the many such passages. Stopping at a door marked only by a number, Breetai pressed the button to open the door and stepped inside.

The lounge, a room of modest size and comfortable but not luxurious appointments, had but a single occupant waiting for Breetai despite its ability to easily accommodate a dozen or more.

"Breetai", said Vice Admiral Lisa Hayes, rising from her seat to greet the MCS. She spoke warmly to the Zentraedi officer in a way that perhaps could only come from developing a close friendship with one whom you had been pre-occupied with evading or destroying in the past. The epic perils of the _SDF-1_ belonged to history now, and as all things on Earth had, the relationship between Hayes and Breetai had changed.

"Lisa.", Breetai replied in kind, "How's Rick? I haven't seen him for nearly two weeks. I'm getting the feeling he's avoiding me."

Hayes shook her head, "I was thinking the same myself, only about _me_. He's tangled up in planning and staffing. You can imagine how difficult it is to select a staff and not be able to tell them what they're being selected for. Then throw in the hands-on fighter pilot mentality that means he has to be part of _every_ decision-. I think you have the idea."

"And the wedding plans?"

"I'm thinking I can have him stand up an action officers' group for that and I can get on it- if I make it through staff selection. Call it a work in progress. Tea?"

Hayes gestured to a thermal carafe on one of the lounge's squat tables. The admiral had a cup of coffee for herself, but knowing Breetai's preference had made the proper arrangements with the stewards.

"Thank you, yes."

"I saw your testimony before the appropriations committee this morning.", Hayes said, inviting Breetai to sit with a motion of her hand, "Senator Rozier did everything but throw his microphone at you to rattle you. You came across well, I think."

Breetai settled into the functionally comfortable seat across from Hayes, making it look like children's furniture by his sheer size. Hayes poured the tea into a cup over a single cube of sugar, and handed it to him.

"Rozier has two distinct disadvantages", Breetai noted, sipping carefully at the piping hot contents of his cup, "He hasn't seen what I have seen, and possibly more impeding to his judgment, he must answer to the whims and opinions of the population. It's difficult to sell guns to a population that must consistently see their children go without sufficient food or medicine. I made the best argument I could- and I certainly don't need to argue it to you."

"No, you don't.", Hayes agreed.

"And how is our favorite thief of bread from the mouths of children?"

"The fitting out is ahead of schedule. If Dr. Lang would ever stop submitting change requests to the construction details, we might actually get _well ahead_ of schedule.", Hayes said, her tone suggesting mild annoyance as she peered out the full wall viewing port that had been the center of her attention before Breetai's arrival.

The "thief" was the sole occupant of the officially inoperative construction bay beyond. The _SDF-3_ hung idle in the weightlessness of the dockyard, construction braces and scaffolds still affixed to her hull. The ship's design was nearly identical to the original battle fortress that Zor had created and sent to Earth, later to become the _SDF-1_. The alien influence was outwardly prominent with the ship's, organic, rounded appearance. Significant modifications of the original design to suit human use had been made under the supervision of Dr. Emil Lang, the project lead on the original _SDF-1._ Still, the kinship to vessels of the Zentraedi or Masters' fleets was unquestionable, and perhaps in some ways that was the point. Form followed function, and the function of _SDF-3_ had long since been conceived and was on the verge of realization.

That function though, every detail, and the very existence of the vessel was therefore a carefully guarded secret. Funded and built under the murky bureaucratic umbrella of a "black project"- _SDF-3_ enjoyed anonymity and invisibility from the scrutiny of committees and oversight groups.

"She's going to be something to see when she's finished though.", Hayes mused, alluding to her earlier complaint about Lang's obsessive attention to all construction details.

"Something to see, and all yours.", Breetai added.

"The tax-payers', actually.", Hayes observed, "Or so I'm told. Still, there are days I wish Admiral Gloval were here to see this. The idea was his, so the command should have been his as well."

"Fate plays out as it will.", Breetai said to his human friend, mindful of her sentimental attachment to the commanding officer of the _SDF-1_ who had traded his own life to save hers in the final moments of Khyron and Azonia's suicide attack on the vessel, "Admiral Gloval had every confidence in you when the plan was to involve the _SDF-2_. I see no reason why that confidence would have changed."

"I appreciate that, Breetai, I do.", Hayes said, "But this operation is unlike anything humankind has ever planned. An interstellar, pre-emptive strike against the home world of the Robotech Masters? Tactical wisdom aside, it shifts us from being defenders of ourselves to the aggressors."

Breetai set his tea down, "Lisa, this has been discussed at length. The commonly reached position, one that you supported, was that this operation is in response to the Masters' aggression. Defense takes many forms- some are more clear cut and palatable than others. Still, it is likely that the Masters are weak at home- the Zentraedi either engaged with the Invid or outside of their ability to control as a result of Dolza's defeat. By making the impression that we will not tolerate their all-consuming expansion into the universe, we will gain a position of strength from which to negotiate. At that point we will show our true nature. Hopefully it's as good of one as we want to believe."

"That's good, Breetai. You should put that down on paper."

Breetai smiled, "I have. You can never tell what committee you're going to have to testify before next."

 **Edwards Air Force Base**

The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows of the hardened aircraft shelters and workshop buildings as Winters taxied his fighter, _Marilyn_ , onto the tarmac. As the other three Valkyries of the flight pulled into line with him, he shut the engines down and removed the helmet from his head that felt as though it had grown four times its normal size with the pounding of a headache.

A second set of hands reached through the gap between the open canopy and the cockpit rim and began to unfasten the pilot's harness straps.

Lyle, as he often did on the flight line, had snuck up on Winters to the point of extending the fighter's ladder and scaling it without attracting attention.

"Did you ever attend commando school?", Winters asked as he detached his G-suit from the fighter's pressurized air system.

"Nope.", Lyle replied simply.

"Bloody shame- you could have been one of the greats.", Winters said, taking his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his flight suit and slipping them on. The tint of the lenses softened the glare of the desert sun and dulled the edge of his headache slightly.

"On top'a all the other stuff Ah gotta do?", Lyle chuckled, "Who'd keep mah babies flyin'?"

"Point taken, forget commando school.", Winters said as the ordinance handling vehicles arrived to reclaim the unused weapons on _Marilyn_ 's wings.

Lyle scooted down the ladder quickly to let the pilot deplane.

Seeing empty missile rails on the wing pylons, Lyle asked, "What should Ah be paintin' on the side later?"

Winters almost laughed, shaking his head, "A rusted out pick-up truck and a gun tower. I don't suppose you have stencils for those, do you?"

Lyle glanced at the artwork on the fuselage associated with Winters' tally of kills, "Nope- that's a new one on me…. Ah'll figure somethin'."

"Don't bother.", Winters said, "I'd as soon forget."

The ordinance handling crew, three micronized male Zentraedi, dismounted their open-topped Wolverine and made their salutes to Winters as they hustled with conviction to render the weapons mounted on his aircraft safe for removal and return to munitions storage.

As the three aliens passed Winters, towering over him even in their reduced state, the lieutenant colonel did not return their salute. Unnoticed by the ordinance handlers, he stopped abruptly, nearly causing Lyle to run into him. A strange numbness leeched its way through the tissues of the pilot's body until he no longer felt the heat of the sun or heard the voices around him or the noise of the flight line.

The numbness ended with a sharp, almost doubling pain as the searing orb of hate returned like a sunburst to Winters belly.

" _Get those ditto bastards AWAY FROM MY BLOODY PLANE!",_ bellowed Winters, his voice rising steadily to a roar the way a whistle rose on a building head of steam in a kettle.

Lyle's face was a perfect mask of shock as Winters' gaze burned through him at the ordinance crew that had frozen in place and now stood helpless- unsure of how to react. Similarly, the three other pilots of the patrol stood nearby, equally dumbfounded.

" _Get away!_ ", Winters raged, flailing his arms as one might to shoo away a dumb animal, " _Get away!.. Or don't you speak the King's English, you carbon-copy bastards?!_.."

When the three airmen failed to reply, Winters face twisted into a grotesque sneer of contempt. The sun glinted off of chrome as the pilot's .44 revolver came free of its holster and leveled at the three- the muzzle drifting back and forth between them.

" _Jack!_ ", yelled Dalton, the only one of the three Knight Hawk pilots to manage words at the spectacle.

"Hey, pard'-.", Lyle said, slowly reaching for the long barrel of the revolver, "Just put `er down now-."

Winters sidestepped out of Lyle's reach, and there was another glint of polished metal accompanied by a solid click as the pistol's hammer was cocked and the cylinder rotated.

Dalton, now two paces away was less conciliatory in his words than Lyle, "Jack, have you lost your _fucking mind?! Put the goddamn gun down!_ "

Activity had stopped on the tarmac to the man, though Winters was oblivious to it.

"Put it down.", Dalton said again, calmly this time. Seeing that Winters was starting to hear him, the squadron XO put his hand on Winters' right forearm and directed the barrel of the .44 at the concrete.

The three Zentraedi airmen began to breathe again.

Winters whirled on Lyle, bowing over him to the point where the mechanic had to bend backward at the waist to keep their noses from touching as the CO ranted, " _They_ don't go anywhere near _our_ kites, Lyle-! Do you hear me?! Not to load or unload weapons, not to clean the fucking windshields or check the tire pressure. If there's a fire and those Valkyries are burning, _they_ don't piss on them to save them. Am I clear, Lyle?"

Still stunned beyond the ability to manage more, Lyle was able to get out, "Yeah…"

Winters withdrew from the scene without another word. He thumbed the hammer of the revolver forward and holstered it as he strode rigidly and briskly toward the flight prep building.

"I think I just peed myself.", Scooter said, joining Lyle and Dalton with Vincenz.

"Ah know Ah did…", Lyle admitted, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead in a delayed reaction, "What tha hell-?.."

Dalton looked at the aircraft captain, the other pilots, and the three airmen who remained fixed where they stood. He was aware that many eyes around the tarmac were still on what had just occurred- though activity was slowly resuming.

"It's a long story.", Dalton said, feeling the post-adrenaline jitters begin to tingle, "Let's just get cleaned up and get to debriefing. Lyle-. I don't know what to do about them… Have another ordinance team strip the birds. Jack's got his blood up."

Lyle nodded as the remaining three pilots followed the path the CO had taken to the flight prep building, "Yeah, sure…"

Lyle turned to the airmen and said apologetically, "It's awlright… Y'all didn' do nothin' wrong. He's just-. Whell, never mind- just go `n have a smoke `n we'll handle this."

The three Zentraedi retreated without a word from the scene. Lyle felt remiss in his attempt to reassure them that the incident had not been of their doing as he watched them skulk away like guilty dogs caught in the act of eating from the dinner table.

Lyle thought to follow them to say more, but there was no point to reliving the moment. It was best to let it go.

The mechanic cocked his Osaka Pistons cap back on his head and rested his hand on the nose of Winters' fighter as though _Marilyn_ required consoling.

" _Sheeyt…._ "

That said it all in Lyle's simple way.

The mechanic returned to work.

 **Yellowstone City**

General Leonard consistently found his trips to Yellowstone City to be a mixed bag of pleasures.

The capital city of United Earth, for those who accepted the concept, was much further along in the process of reconstruction- or to be accurate, _construction_ \- than Mexico City where The Army of the Southern Cross Headquarters had relocated. Among the features of civilization that Yellowstone City offered were hotels, like the Hilton Federal Plaza, in which Leonard had the penthouse suite. His entourage of aides, staff, security, and a personal valet occupied most of the rooms on the level below. Those rooms that were not occupied had been reserved and paid for, but hosted no one in order to maintain uniform control of the level.

Such precautions were standard in Leonard's numerous trips to Yellowstone City. His opinions, and moreover his actions both on-the-record and alleged were well known, and not popular with all.

The waiter, sent by room service and security-checked in and accompanied from the kitchen by Leonard's personal guards was completing the setting of a dinner table for two in the suite's sun room. As the waiter poured the second glass of wine, the elevator chime rang, announcing the car's arrival.

Leonard looked at his watch and found it to be precisely 1930 hours.

Punctuality impressed the general.

The waiter pushed his cart toward the elevator as the guards received the nod of approval to open the elevator doors.

A guard turned a security key in the elevator control panel and the polished brass doors slid open allowing the occupant to step out.

Not quite as tall as Leonard, and far more slight of build, the white man in his mid-to-late fifties, dressed sharply in a well maintained, pressed, grey silk suit passed by Leonard's guards without comment or interference. His salt and pepper hair (mostly salt) framed and accented the sharp features of his nose and jaw line and was the best and only real indicator of the man's age.

The waiter rolled his cart onto the elevator, at which point Leonard said to his guards, "You can go too. I trust him."

"Yes sir.", complied the head of the security detail as he ushered the three other guards into the car before stepping in himself.

When the brass elevator doors shut, Leonard spoke again.

"Lott?"

"Yes, General", said the man, advancing across the floor to shake the ASC officer's sizable hand, "How good to finally speak to you without the filtering effect of aides."

Leonard motioned to the table, "I had dinner set for two. I felt it appropriate given the hour. Join me?"

Lott followed Leonard to the table, saying, "You'll pardon me if I don't dine-. I maintain odd hours and habits. I may have some of your wine though."

Leonard settled into his seat and removed the lid from his plate to reveal the veritable feast of lamb chops, roasted potatoes with rosemary, and a medley of steamed fresh vegetables.

"Suit yourself, but I intend to eat. We don't get lamb that often in Mexico City."

"Nor in many other places.", agreed Lott, raising the glass of red wine from the table and allowing the scent to drift into his nostrils, "I will also beg your forgiveness if I do not remain long. The essence of what I have to propose is simple and should take but a few minutes of your time."

Leonard watched as Lott reached into his suit coat's billfold pocket and retrieved a device, the size of a pack of cigarettes, cased in plastic which he set down on the table and flipped a switch on its side.

Leonard realized he must have looked concerned as Lott explained assuring him, "It's a signal scrambler. Any bugs or listening devices in the room will be disrupted by this device. I, like you, have those who are interested in my every word and movement."

"The room was swept for bugs.", Leonard replied.

Lott raised an eyebrow with his glass, "I know of three that they missed."

Leonard allowed the comment to pass without reaction.

Slicing into the lamb on his plate, the general kept the conversation flowing, though toward what he was uncertain.

"You know, Mr. Lott, my office receives solicitations and offers from every kind of fringe group and crackpot under the sun. Anti-unification groups, human supremacists, neo-nationalists- all call with the same message as you, that they have the means to help the ASC in a significant way."

"And what leads you t believe that I'm not just a crackpot?", Lott asked, seeming genuinely interested in Leonard's response.

The general went into his pocket and retrieved several printed pages folded into thirds. He unfolded the pages and lay them beside Lott's untouched plate, saying, "The fact that you sent me a copy of my itinerary before I had seen it from my own staff."

"The gathering and relevant dissemination of information is one of my- _our_ areas of proficiency. One of them."

"I gathered that as soon as you stepped off the elevator.", Leonard said, "You were in the committee room today during the hearing. A row behind me and to the left. My plan to _impose_ myself on that session was written down nowhere in this.." Leonard tapped the itinerary with the fingers of his powerful left hand. "Only my closest staff, whom I selected personally and trust with my life knew, besides the guards who were bribed to get me in of course."

"Who do you think told the guards to accept the bribe?", Lott countered, savoring a small sip of his wine.

"I don't know. Who?", Leonard asked, "You have my attention and my interest, Mr. Lott- sell your wares."

Lott set his wine glass down and began to speak in the professional manner one would expect from a banker or businessman negotiating a venture.

"General Leonard, first- you should know that I, like you, am a federal employee- though you would be hard pressed to find my name in any phone or email directory accessible to mere mortals. Like you, my organization and I operate with a loose affiliation to The United Earth Government. For The Army of the Southern Cross and yourself, it's the result of occurrences, events, plans and decisions by not only yourself but by the Government as well. My organization stands aloof, and has stood so since its conception, by design."

"Who are you?", Leonard asked, "Ministry of Defense? Ministry of Internal Affairs? Intelligence?"

"All and none.", Lott answered frankly, "I have no obligations to any of the ministries, though I have developed extensive networks in each. To be honest, General Leonard, my position is an action-minded agency director's utopia. My mission, though not written down in any charter, is clear and well defined. My authority to operate and my scope are broad, and the chain of authority to whom I report is short.- Very short."

Leonard chewed his dinner as he spoke, "You have a gift for speaking in ambiguities, Mr. Lott. You still have told me nothing of value. The intangible does me no good, sir. I live and operate in a very real world."

Lott nodded, "So you do, General, as do I. The name of my organization is hardly relevant, as it officially has none. The name, _Inner Circle Agency_ seems to have become popular amongst my colleagues and subordinates and taken hold. I have to admit, it has a certain Masonic flair to it. We may even develop letterhead one day."

A spark of recognition glittered in Leonard's eyes.

"There have been stories, from time to time. Nothing concrete- only rumors. Hazy details of things that may or may not have actually happened."

"The result of a well-orchestrated, rigorously maintained information control program.", Lott said, a hint of pride showing through, "And not easily accomplished, General Leonard, mind you- not easily accomplished by any means."

Leonard nodded, "You'll have to help me here, Mr. Lott. I'm a simple soldier by nature, so there's something that I don't understand. You, I would guess as you seem capable of knowing more than I on the subject, must know better than anyone that The Army of the Southern Cross is considered by the Government to be an experiment. To be more blunt, Mr. Lott, it is an experiment deemed by its Government creators to be running amok- no small thanks to me. You've heard discussions in the Appropriations Committee, and you no doubt have access to many closed-door meetings. The Government is trying to put the ASC- to put _me_ in a strangle hold. Perhaps its my military education, Mr. Lott, but an entity struggling for survival hardly seems like an ideal choice of allies. And that leads me to another thought, I'm not certain what you're proposing an alliance in."

Lott raised his glass again and drank from it before replying.

"An alliance, General Leonard, or any cooperative effort for that matter begins with recognition of common purpose and common adversities. I spoke earlier of my organization's undocumented mission. The origin of that mission lies in the policies of The United Earth Government regarding the displaced Zentraedi population. By Presidential mandate, legislative approval, and Ministry of Internal Affairs policy- the official Government approach to roughly a billion recently hostile aliens on this planet is assimilation through empowerment and inclusion in society. The Zentraedi, General Leonard, for all their faults are not an unintelligent race- many, a majority I venture to say, see the benefit of assimilation and through the various Government projects are willing to go with that program. The Zentraedi, while very capable of adapting to their new social environment, have also nonetheless their own well-established culture and heritage. Some beasts are not as easily domesticated as others. You, General Leonard and the ASC, grapple with those elements daily that will not be assimilated. Many in the Government and the Robotech Defense Forces feel that you have exceded your scope and authority in the way you deal with these malcontents. The simple answer would be to remove you from command by administrative or, shall we say, _non-traditional_ means. The Government and the RDF cannot do this however because while renegade in your methodology, you are exceedingly popular with the civilians in your sphere of influence. They cannot simply make you go away- so as you said, they intend to strangle you into ineffectiveness by cutting your funding, your material resources, and in effect marginalizing the ASC. In short, the ASC will never mature to its potential so long as you are in command."

"I would agree that is an accurate summation.", Leonard allowed, "So, those are my problems. How do you tie in?"

Lott continued, "My problems are similar, though they differ in some of the details. You, General Leonard, have come up with a creative solution to the issue of funding your army. The harvest, processing, trafficking, and sale of narcotics has not diminished as a lucrative enterprise by any account-."

Leonard's face darkened with anger, "Unfortunate things sometimes happen in times of desperation, Mr. Lott- I cannot pursue security and quell every infraction of law in my command that-."

Lott raised a hand, "I'm not judging you, General Leonard. Given other options, I'm certain that a man of your background would not opt to fund his operations by such means- but let's speak as grown men and professionals. I know you receive a considerable subsidy to your Government funding from illicit activities. No, your problem is not funding in reality. You actually have a substantial purse. Where the Government has you in a strangle hold is in your ability to translate that wealth into material. Legitimate avenues of military production are restricted to you. The bulk of research and development, production, and sustainment go to the Robotech Defense Forces and the emerging Robotech Expeditionary Force. You have deep pockets, but nowhere to spend."

"We're slowly building our own industry.", Leonard pointed out, "On the local, even the cottage industry level. You are correct though, supply of the ASC will never be a top priority of the Government so long as I'm commanding."

"Which brings us to the similarities between The Army of the Southern Cross and the Inner Circle Agency.", Lott continued, "I said that our mission was rooted in official Government policy. My authority to operate begins where that policy fails to achieve results. We draw our funding from pots of black money because we are called on to do unspeakable things from time to time to maintain order. In doing so, we are very much like you. Where we are different is that you operate in the open and we reside in shadow. The Government can't let the tax-payers know that occasionally, even frequently, they are funding assassinations and massacres- necessary as they may be. I serve the function that you have been outcast for taking upon yourself. Though my reach into all of the areas I require to perform that function is great, I suffer from the impediment of funding. My money comes from black funds, but it is still carefully measured and disbursed by the Government. They are not trying to strangle me yet, but I'm given only enough sustenance to survive and operate at my present level- not enough to grow."

"And you're looking at my purse.", Leonard surmised.

"Yes.", admitted Lott, "But not without compensation. You see, we could endeavor to begin our own illegal enterprise to fund our aspirations- but that would inevitably mean conflict with the financial interests of the ASC. This would lead to war, General- a war that neither of us can afford because it would draw resources away from our common objective of security."

Leonard nodded, "A point well stated, Mr. Lott. I have no intention of allowing narcotics to dominate my time and energy. So, lets say you get money. What does the ASC receive?"

Lott smiled, pleased with the progress being made, "Honestly, General Leonard, I cannot provide you directly with what you need most- mecha, arms, munitions. What I can provide is a wealth of information with which you can do for yourself. You have very talented individuals working for you on all levels, though intelligent and gifted as they are they suffer from exclusion from the cutting edge of technological research. I can provide that. I can provide insight into highly classified manufacturing best practices. In your operational capacity, I can augment your intelligence capabilities with those of the Government. I can also provide covert actions to support your efforts. Perhaps most importantly, I can cloud the vision of those watching you. I can put a cataract on the eye of the Government that will allow your new knowledge to take root and flourish."

Leonard set his cutlery down, one appetite having traded priority over another.

"A very appealing offer, Mr. Lott. At the risk of sounding too skeptical though-. How do I know that you can deliver what you promise?"

Lott set his glass down and rose from his chair, "Tomorrow you will be leaving Yellowstone to return to Mexico City. You have a scheduled staff briefing at 0930 Mexico City time. When you conclude your meeting, check your classified internal email account. You will find a message with no sender name and no point of origin. There will be a compressed file attached. Be careful with it, General Leonard. It will be a series of technical reports including hardware design schematics and computer code from the Veritech Design Bureau within the Ministry of Defense, detailing progress with the latest generation Neuro-Pilot control system. You will be contacted in forty-eight hours. If your scientific and industrial experts do not find the information to be revealing and actionable- do not accept the call and I will consider this matter concluded. If on the other hand they find the information of value, and you wish to see what other services I can provide you- then we can begin detailed negotiations, under the proper security considerations of course."

Leonard nodded agreement, "I'll be sure to check my mail. Oh, and Mr. Lott-."

"Yes?"

"How do you know that I can and will deliver to you what you seek?"

Lott paused thoughtfully, "Every partnership begins with a certain degree of trust, General Leonard- a leap of faith, if you will. I feel you will deliver because it is in your best interest to do so. As our partnership evolves, I know you will also see that we are not to be meddled with. But mostly, it is a leap of faith. Mostly."

"Then I wish you a good evening, Mr. Lott."

"And I you, General Leonard.", Lott replied picking up his signal scrambler, "Have a pleasant and safe flight home."

 **Edwards City, California**

Since the days of Muroc Army Air Field, there had always been an establishment on the outskirts of the military facility and of military control like The High Desert Pilot's Social Club. The tradition had been established in the 1940's by the earthy personality of Pancho Barnes- an accomplished pilot in her own right whose "Happy Bottom Riding Club" had served as a refuge to serviceman and civilian pilot alike until it burned to the ground in the early 1960's. The tradition of the Happy Bottom Riding Club having taken hold, it had passed through several incarnations and varying levels of sophistication since then.

The High Desert Pilot's Social Club in many ways marked the coming full circle of the Happy Bottom Riding Club- insofar as similarities in appearances could mark the completion of a cycle.

Wood framed and plank and corrugated metal clad, the Club was heterogeneous amalgamation of every conceivable type of construction material whose walls retained no heat in the cool of night, nor kept out the heat of day, and whose patchwork roof leaked at countless points onto the plywood floors in the infrequent occurrences of rain on the Mojave. The coalescence of odd parts did not end at the Club's exterior. It was a fact for all to see, and a boasting point for the Club's owner Roxana, that there were no two chairs or tables on the floor, nor stools at the bar that matched. Even the countertop of the bar that ran the modest length of the Club opposite the front door was clearly a Frankenstein spliced together from three vastly different sources.

Still, there was running water and power, possibly even legitimately obtained, which allowed the battered laser disc juke box to play and the occasionally functional neon lights to flicker. The booze was never watered down, the coffee strong, the bill of fare decent when available- and all faces were familiar to one another. That was the attraction of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club despite its dilapidated state and shortfall of refinements.

"How do you remember all of that?", asked the young woman, twisting an already curled lock of dirty blonde hair around a finger as she nursed the drink bought for her by the RDF major on the stool next to her. There was no need to make the one drink last really, as she had a sense it was the first of many he would offer. On the many nights she had noticed the pilot with other officers from his squadron, he had always run up a considerable tab and had always paid in full at the end of the evening. He could afford to buy her drinks. She wanted to find out more about him though before alcohol boosted her attraction to his clean, muscular, Latin attractiveness.

"It's my name- of course I remember it all.", the pilot said through a curl of smoke from his cigarette.

"Say it again.", the young woman said.

"What, you don't remember? What kind of woman are you, taking drinks from a man whose name you don't even know?"

The woman laughed, feeling the warmth of the gin spreading into her extremities, and she gave the pilot a playful shove to the shoulder, "I like the way you say it!.. What kind of girl am I?.."

The pilot offered another cigarette to the woman, which she accepted, and lit it for her as he repeated with an intentionally but not overwhelmingly pronounce accent, " _Tomas Santino Juan-Pedro Mencia Cruz._ "

The woman snickered giddily, nearly choking on her gin, "Your name is Tom Cruz?"

The pilot smiled and nodded, "Why do you think they call me _Maverick_?"

The woman blinked, "I don't know- why?"

Cruz's expression went blank for a moment, and as it did the woman shoved his shoulder again and laughed, " _C'mon!.._ I'm not that dumb!"

Cruz laughed with her, "Okay, you had me for a second. I'm the genuine article though."

"You're genuine?", the woman asked, making an obvious display as she batted her long eyelashes at him.

"Very.", Cruz said, sipping from his glass of beer that was colder than usual tonight, "My mother taught me importance of sincerity."

"You haven't asked me my name yet.", the woman pointed out, "What kind of man are you to buy drinks for a woman whose name you don't know?"

"I know your name, Monica.", Cruz said plainly.

The woman's mouth dropped open, "How'd you know that? Did you lift my wallet out of my purse or something?"

"No, I just asked Tuawan.", Cruz explained, "Your name is Monica, you're in the same pre-law program as Tuawan, and you like your gin straight."

"When did you ask her all of this?"

"A couple of nights ago."

"And you waited until now to ask to buy me a drink?"

"Well", Cruz said, "I wanted to wait and see if you were going to show up with a man one evening first."

"Why not ask Tuawan?"

Cruz raised his glass whimsically, "You have to leave some mystery to be explored, don't you?"

" _Oh God-_.", said a voice from behind, "I'm gonna be sick."

Cruz recognized Vincenz's voice immediately, and acknowledged him without turning on his stool, "Vice."

"If your mother taught you sincerity, then where did you pick up your gift for bullshit?"

"My uncles.", Cruz replied, turning on his stool as Monica did, "Are you bothering us for a reason, or?-.."

Another pilot from Knight Hawk Squadron, shorter and thinner than Vincenz, cut in, "We're just trying to be of assistance. Ma'am, is this ruffian bothering you?"

Cruz motioned with his drink at the two pilots, "Monica, this is Vice, and this is Preacher. Good people, if looks and brains aren't a factor."

The young woman sipped from her drink, "This really is a pilot's bar, isn't it?"

"And one of the few they'll still let these two into.", Preacher said, drinking from his beer. The thin but fit pilot radiated a palpable energy that it would have taken a half dozen more beers to dampen- not that he would drink that much.

"Okay-.", Monica said, inviting the other two pilots into the conversation, "I get _Maverick_ \- but how did you two come upon the handles of _Vice_ and _Preacher_?- I find these things really interesting."

Major Vincenz put on his best swagger, shifting from side to side in a macho display, "Because in the air, I'm like a bad habit- you can't seem to shake me."

"That, and some other guy already had the call sign, _Herpes_.", Preacher said, jabbing Vincenz in the ribs playfully with his elbow.

Vincenz smacked the other pilot in the back of the head with just enough force to make a slapping sound through his "high and tight" haircut.

"And you?", Monica asked the shorter pilot, putting the cigarette to her lips.

"Me? Nothing so creative I'm afraid-."

Cruz pointed and explained, "He's a real preacher."

" _Ordained Baptist Minister_ , thank you very much.", the pilot explained, "Trying to bring the word of God to you heathens and the enemy. Major Minister Eugene Wayne, but you can just call me Gene."

Monica swirled the gin in her glass thoughtfully, "Doesn't being a fighter pilot kinda clash with the whole man-of-God thing?"

"Not at all.", Wayne replied, delighted at the observation, "I try to save souls before I send them to their Maker. You're talking to the only certified fighter pilot clergyman in the RDF-AF, ma'am."

"Hence, _Preacher_.", said Vincenz, "It's good to have God on your side- but he's a little freaky. I've known him for six years, and I've never seen him drunk or heard him curse."

"I curse!", Wayne protested flailing his free arm, " _Gosh!_ -See? There? I did it."

Cruz laughed, knowing that Wayne would not be lured or tricked into profane or lewd language, "Careful, Preacher- You keep taking _Gosh'_ s name in vain, and you'll be _darned_ to _heck_."

Wayne laughed, "-You guys…."

"Okay, now I get _Preacher_ too.", Monica said, "So, will you drink with us?"

"No-.", declined Wayne modestly, "Just making sure this one was being an officer _and_ a gentleman."

"Perpetually.", Cruz said with an innocent, "who me?" tone.

"Yeah", Vincenz said incredulously, "Give it four beers and thirty minutes."

"I've gotta go.", Wayne announced, "My wife's around here somewhere, and I don't want her to think I'm carousing."

"No risk of that.", Vincenz said.

Before the two pilots could leave, Cruz asked an additional, simple question.

"Vice, what's with Jack tonight? He looks like he's in a funk."

Vincenz and Wayne paused as though they had both just set bare feet on broken glass.

"Yeah, that.", Vincenz said, "Bad day on The Outlands. Better steer clear of him tonight. He's cleansing his soul with bourbon though, and should be his normal self tomorrow."

Wayne said seriously to Cruz, "I'll fill you in later, okay?"

"Yeah, no problem."

The liquid warmth of bourbon kept the chill of the desert night off Winters as he emptied his glass once again and set it heavily on the unfinished wood table. To Lt. Col. Dalton, Lyle, and Roxana- the proprietor of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club it was clear that the pilot was intent on a good drunk, and that he was well on his way. There was no point in arguing over it or trying to intervene. For Winters, drinking was not an accidental occurrence. Every bout with intoxication was as deliberate as the act of him putting on his boots in the morning.

The order of the evening would therefore be damage control.

Rio hovered not far away.

She kept part of the floor, seeing to the customers whom she knew mostly to the point of being able to serve them drinks without taking their orders in her way that was familiar to them all. Little else was done in Rio's section of the floor while Winters was there though, and Roxana knew it. She was a stabilizing influence. Winters would less likely boil over with her there- unless she interfered with the drunk.

Tonight's outcome was still a toss-up.

Rio lifted the bottle needed from where it sat on the bar countertop and crept to the table with a quick movement. The way the waitress carried herself was not a result of Winters' condition, though to a stranger's first glance it may have appeared to be. To Club regulars though, Rio's "creeping" was as commonplace as the flies in the afternoon heat. Not unlike her cat, every change in location seemed a dash from one point of safety to another.

With a tilt of the wrist, Rio filled the glass again without reaction from Winters.

Rio's free hand rose to brush the hair at his temple with the backs of her fingers. Winters recoiled abruptly, startling her before he could catch himself. Rio repeated the effort after a moment and this time Winters allowed it briefly. His hand came up after several caresses and gently but firmly moved Rio's away.

"Why don't you leave that bottle, sweetie.", suggested Roxana, her voice raspy from years of smoking and hard living. The owner's dyed auburn hair and made-up face were indicative of her attention, at least outwardly, to self-maintenance though a stranger to the bar had once made the appropriate analogy of applying fresh paint to a cracked plaster wall.

"You'll have run a marathon by night's end taking that bottle back and forth from the bar."

Rio nodded and looked for assurance in setting it down before the owner. She clearly wanted to see the vessel and its contents under Roxana's control and not Winters'.

"I got it.", Roxana said waving her hand at the young woman, "Go on, scoot."

Rio shrank in two movements to the safety behind the bar where she immediately picked up a clean towel and began to assist the other waitress, Tuawan, in polishing the spots from the clean glasses.

"Colonel-Select Mumuni.", Dalton said with an air of finality, "Well, it's official anyway."

Winters gazed over the rim of his glass at the petite woman of West African origin and athletic build. Smiles shone on the faces of the pilots in her squadron, the Vigilantes, as the revelries continued to build upon themselves in honor of her impending promotion to full colonel.

The air-brushed emblem of her squadron on the back of her aviator's jacket, a skull with crude wooden sign in its teeth marked, "3-7-77", over crossed Peacemaker revolvers seemed to Winters to be staring him down. He knew it was only the bourbon talking to him though and ignored the malicious imp whispering in his ear.

"Figure she'll be out of here soon?", Roxana asked.

"She hopes.", Dalton said, "No one _wants_ to stay at Edwards."

Lyle looked into his glass at the film that had been the head on his beer, "Aw, it ain't that bad."

"The hell it isn't.", Winters said, having been silent for some time. His words weren't slurred yet, but it was clear the bourbon had its claws in him, "Edwards is the porcelain on the bottom of the bowl that your career leaves skid marks on as it swirls down. It's where they send the fuck-ups, because there's nothing here to fuck up."

Dalton attempted humor, "Are you saying that your dissatisfied with your current posting?"

Roxana laughed the throaty, hacking laugh of aged smokers and by her example Winters' disposition lightened a shade.

"I suppose I should congratulate her.", Winters resolved, setting his glass, now half-empty, down.

"Congratulate her or punch her in the teeth?", Dalton asked, not completely convinced that the sentiment Winters had announced he would express would be the one delivered.

"Not sure.", Winters said, rising slowly to his feet, assessing his own level of intoxication, "But I'm more drunk than them-. That will at least make it a fair fight."

"You're paying for anything you break.", Roxana called after him only partially jesting, as Winters picked up his glass to take it with him.

Mumuni sensed something in the change of her executive officer, Lt. Col. "Dusty" Drake's expression, because she turned before Winters reached her. She saw his state and was not certain what to expect from his lips until they cracked a forced but amicable smile.

"Colonel-Select, ma'am.", Winters said, "Congratulations on a well-deserved promotion."

"Thank you, Nigel.", Mumuni said, raising her glass to touch rims with the other squadron leader's, "Pull a few more patrols like the one today, and you'll have your bird back again before you know it."

"Not likely.", Winters said flatly.

"Sure.", Mumuni persisted, "You have to. I'm not going to be able to stand having you have to salute me."

"Well, I may not, Ganyet-. I'm looking to get busted to major by year's end."

"We all need goals.", Mumuni said, letting the original suggestion go, "Come, drink with us."

Winters motioned to his table, "No, I have a whole bottle calling me back. Besides, I know your pilots and you're going to spend a month's salary on them here tonight. Just remember the little people when you run this dung heap."

"You'll still be my favorite beetle on it.", Mumuni charmed.

Winters raised his glass high over his head and called back in the general direction of his squadron, "Lads!- To Colonel-Select Ganyet Mumuni and her valiant Vigilantes!"

Glasses rose, and in unison with the unnoticeable exception of "Preacher" Wayne, the squadron said in a single voice, " _Fuck you!_ "

Familiar with the tradition, the Vigilantes laughed and raised their glasses in a return toast.

"Squadron song for the Colonel-Select!", ordered Winters, noting the look of disapproval on Lyle's face as he always had when the ditty was sung.

" _Some Valkyries do Mach ten in space-_

 _Others do Mach nine._

 _But if we get ours to start at all-_

 _We say we're doing fine!"_

A cheer went up from both squadrons as Winters and Mumuni touched glasses once again and parted ways.

"Ah hate that song.", Lyle said as Winters settled into his seat again and reached for the bottle of bourbon.

"Then put on another-.", Winters said, "You know the one."

Roxana swiped the bottle away possessively, "No way, _hombre_ \- I'm pouring as long as you're paying."

Lyle got up and moseyed to the juke box, punching in numbers known by heart on the faded keypad.

Winters pushed his glass toward her, "Well when was the last time I actually paid?"

"Can't remember.", Roxana said, "Drink up."

The speakers of the music machine, once high quality devices many years before, crackled and popped as Winters' preferred ballad began. The collaborative result of the country music greats of Nelson, Kristofferson, Jennings, and Cash which had transcended the artists' own mortality came strongly through the air with slight distortion from failing technology with "Boxcar Willie" beginning-

 _"I was a highwayman._

 _On the coach roads I did ride-._

 _With sword and pistol by my side._

 _Many a young maid lost her marvels to my trade._

 _Many a soldier shed his life's blood on my blade._

 _The masters hung me in the spring of `25._

 _\- But I am still alive."_

A breath of night air swirled through the bar as the hole-ridden screen door opened to admit four more customers. Uniforms under flight jackets identified them as RDF-AF, but it was the aura of the eldest man of the four and the way his companions carried themselves around him that quickly drew attention from all corners of the Club.

It was Dalton who first noticed, or at least voiced the most important aspect of the eldest man's attire.

"Stars- twelve o'clock level..", he said under his breath to Winters.

"IFF?", Winters asked, rolling his swagger stick on the tabletop with a stimulating effect to the hand as the cane head's carved shaft traveled back and forth.

"MFWIC", Dalton said, "Three stars. Shouldn't we stand or something?"

"I'm off duty.", Winters said.

" _Motherfucker Who's In Charge_.", Roxana sighed heavily, "He's probably going to expect a free drink."

Winters continued to reduce the contents of his glass unperturbed, as Mumuni became the third-highest ranking officer in the Club. The lieutenant general and three full colonels remained huddled tightly as they surveyed their new environment, even as the occupants of the Club were losing interest in them.

"I'm looking for Lieutenant Colonel Winters.", the lieutenant general announced.

Dalton's expression was apprehensive as Winters raised his swagger stick with a lazy wave. The four officers moved as one in the general's wake, crossing to where the pilot sat.

"Don't get up.", the general said, much to Winters' relief as he feigned the intent to rise.

"Can I offer you a seat then?", Winters asked.

In the corner, Lyle discretely made certain to conceal the fact he was an NCO with whom the two lieutenant colonels at the table were blatantly fraternizing.

"If you don't mind.", the general said as a colonel in his staff who looked remarkably like the other two moved a chair from another table to accommodate his superior.

Winters motioned around the table by way of introductions, "My leftenant, Dalton, Roxana, the fountain of this oasis, and that's Lyle- he doesn't bite."

"I'm-.", the general began.

"Leftenant- pardon me, _Lieutenant_ General Hume.", Winters said, "I know who you are. What brings NORAMWEST to Edwards?"

"Surprise inspection.", Hume said, removing his cap to reveal a stubbly grey haircut over his weather wrinkled face.

"I wasn't aware.", Winters said honestly.

"Mission accomplished.", said the general, "And I happened to be in Major General Butler's office when word of your engagement in The Outlands came across his desk. We had other matters to attend to, but I wanted to meet you. Unfortunately, you had already left post by the time our afternoon session had ended. Your CO said I might find you here. Can I buy you a drink?"

Winters raised his glass, "Have one, thanks. But oddly enough, Roxana was just saying how she should give you and your chaps a round on the house."

Roxana kicked Winters in the shin under the table.

Rio appeared with an attentive look on her face.

Hume said to her, "Do you have anything resembling scotch?"

"The best in the Valley.", Winters said and received another kick under the table.

"Scotch and rocks all around then.", Hume said.

Rio nodded with her odd little grin and departed to fill the order.

"Cute.", one of the colonels, a thick-necked man who impressed Winters as looking like a badger, said, "In an Outland, back-water sort of way."

Winters felt the ember in his gut that he'd been working all night to drown flare slightly. Another gulp of bourbon was quickly dispatched to douse it.

The Man in Black was beginning his part, the final lyrics in the song as Winters watched the badger watch Rio at work.

" _I fly a starship-_

 _Across the universe divide._

 _And when I reach the other side,_

 _I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can._

 _Or perhaps I may become a highwayman again._

 _Or I simply may be a simple drop of rain-_

 _But I will remain-."_

Roxana's foot nudged Winters again, bringing him back to the one-sided conversation he was missing.

"-What?"

General Hume blinked, and chalking the pilot's inattentiveness up to drink repeated, "I was a pilot too, I was saying. Phantoms first in the last months of Vietnam, then Eagles in Desert Storm, and then Raptors in The Global War. You flew in The Global War, didn't you, Winters?"

"Tornadoes.", Winters answered briefly, "In the Gulf, and again in the Global scrap."

The badger was getting an eyeful as Rio stretched from atop a stool behind the bar to reach the good, pre-war scotch from the top shelf next to the bar's segment of mirror hung nearly center to the bar's length.

"I still try to talk to the pilots when I can.", the general continued, unaware that Winters was only giving him peripheral attention, "I'd still fly, but a middle-ear injury snipped my wings around the time of the Holocaust. I can still swap stories with the best of them though. Speaking of which, there seems to be a good bit of festivities going on in here tonight. What gives?"

Dalton spoke up quickly, noticing Winters mood as it began to darken again, "The Vigilantes' CO just got tapped for her bird, sir. It would probably be a thrill to her if you and your staff congratulated her- if you'll pardon my suggestion, sir."

Hume watched as an impromptu drinking game took off around Mumuni, orchestrated apparently by her XO, Dusty.

"No", Hume said, shying off from the suggestion, "She and her pilots look like they're in their stride. Brass showing up will just break the rhythm- though I'm looking at their jackets-. What's the three, seven, and seventy-seven for?"

"What was it, Jack?", Dalton asked of his CO, who was now locked on to the badger, "Back in the frontier days of Nevada-."

"Montana.", Lyle corrected.

Dalton kept talking, trying to draw Winters in, "Or was it Wyoming? Anyway, before the people had real law enforcement they'd drive off the local outlaws and riff-raff with vigilante gangs. They'd come up in the middle of the night and paint those three numbers on the door which meant that the bad guy had three hours, seven minutes, and seventy-seven seconds to leave town or they'd be in a hole three feet wide, seven deep, and seventy-seven inches long. Wasn't that what Mumuni told you once, Jack?"

"About outlaws.", Hume said, finding a segue into his topic of interest, "What happened on The Outlands today, Colonel?"

Winters was brought back by another toe-jab from Roxana.

"What?"

"The Outlands- what happened?", Hume repeated.

"A lot of innocent people had their throats cut by a handful of dittos and some trash that barely ranks better in my book. Then they shot up a convoy of kid soldiers, barely old enough to shave, to get the MREs, toilet paper, and tooth brushes they were distributing.- I filed a report. Read it."

A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell over the table. The general, visibly taken aback, relented somewhat realizing that the experience may have been too fresh in Winters' mind to be comfortably recounted.

"Well, I suppose that's the ugly side of our business.", Hume allowed, "You might have hit on the real issue though, Colonel. Civilians die, and I come looking for John Wayne stories about the engagement."

Dalton braced himself.

It could have been the half dozen glasses of beer in his system that had allowed the precise moment of the event to elude him, but he saw it now. He saw it clear as day. Winters was in a full boil, and the lid was about to pop.

"They didn't _die_ , General- they were bled out like koshered cattle!", Winters raged, striking the tabletop emphatically with his swagger stick, "And it wasn't an _engagement_ \- it was the varsity rugby team beating up on the school retards!"

Rio arrived with the tray of drinks in time to cause a distraction.

"We'll just have our drinks and be on our way I think.", Hume resolved as Rio quickly set a glass down before him. Her gaze fell pleadingly on Winters, giving him a barely noticeable shake of the head that said, _no._

Dalton knew the situation was too far gone when the badger spoke directly to Winters as Rio made her round of the table.

"Lieutenant Colonel Winters- your accomplishments today and your inebriated state aside- I'll remind you that you're talking to superior officers. Watch yourself, or face the consequences."

"Being?", Winters replied.

"Jim, let's just tone it down a little-.", Hume said, now working like Dalton to make peace but not grasping that the time had passed.

"The stockade.", the badger, Colonel Jim, said, "Or we might have to take it outside."

"Jim-.", Hume began.

Winters replied over the general, "You and me and the devil makes three…"

The general's words were lost to Winters as Rio set the badger's drink down and his hand rewarded her with a gentle swat on the rump.

 _"Son-of-a-bitch!"_

Glasses and bottles flew as the light, unsteady table toppled at Winters' explosion. Neither the first glass nor a drop of liquor had touched the unfinished wood floor before Winters bore down on the badger wielding the cane-made swagger stick like a police baton. Blood and teeth flew as the stick and the badger's face made contact.

Dalton flew from his chair, not rising, but diving from the seated position and caught Winters about the waist and separating him from the colonel who lay curled and clutching his face on the floor between the other two full birds who had risen to defend him and perhaps the general.

Lyle was on his feet as well and with Vincenz and Cruz who seized Winters from behind carried the pilot who viciously swung at the thin air out the front door into the night.

Dalton stood in shock of what had just occurred and only began to hear the bellowing of the general as Winters' cursing and spitting faded into the night. The bar was otherwise dead silent with all eyes turned at the Knight Hawks' XO and the wild gesticulations of Lieutenant General Hume.

" _-Do you hear me, Lieutenant Colonel?! That man is a maniac and I will have him drummed out of the Service! I will have him drummed out of the Service and see him stand tall before the Man with God as my witness! I will have charges on all of you!…"_

83


	3. Nuggets

**Chapter Two**

 **Nuggets**

"We are in the trade of making warriors.

To do so we are many artisans in one. Like farmers, we sift and separate the chaff from the wheat. Like blacksmiths, we hammer impurities from the iron to make steel. And finally, like the sword-makers of old, we take the steel and we fashion it into a blade and put an edge to it.

We begin this process anew every twelve weeks.

It appeals to me that you can never know, looking into those nervous faces, which will be the next great general, admiral, or lowly rank-and-file who achieved something for which the world would remember them? There's that potential in each, and it takes the hardest of love sometimes to help them find it in themselves.

I am both proud and privileged to be given the opportunity to do just that.

At the same time it is heartbreaking that sometimes we read the names of the dead and can put them to a face. It is sad that every twelve weeks we see young men and women who could do great things for the world if given a chance to follow paths other than the ones we begin them on.

Still, we- _I_ feel pride in making warriors and at the same time say a prayer fervently with every new group of recruits that one day we won't have to train the cream of our youth in so horrible a discipline."

Senior Master Sergeant James O'Shae

Senior Training Sergeant, Robotech Defense Forces Recruit Training Center 32, Falkirk, Scotland

 **Egerton, England**

The mid-morning sun had already burned the haze of mist off of the fields.

Jewels of dew still glittered on meticulously organized and neatly laid rows of wheat, corn, and soybean on the flats and gentle hills of what had been the Turton Golf Club. In times past, when viable and fertile land could be afforded to luxuries, Turton had provided a wealthy few with the recreation of a gentleman's pastime. Those times had vanished though and showed no indication of quickly returning.

Dark earth that had been well-maintained greens and fairways was now kept with equal fervor to provide for the necessity of thousands. No one who remembered Turton before the Holocaust could say when or how the transition from luxury to necessity had occurred exactly. Like many things in the new world, it had seemed to have just happened. There was no public knowledge or memory of any legal struggle over rights to the land. One day, the earth had simply been turned and crops planted on what had been considered in a different reality to be prime real estate. Perhaps it was that the land was still prime real estate, only with priorities shifting from luxury to necessity it was considered so for its new purpose and no one had the audacity to raise a word in protest.

For now though, Turton had opened its gates to serve all.

A gathering of birds, a sight more and more frequent to the point of almost being commonplace, exploded with an agitated chirping and fluttering of wings from a narrow lane between a plot of corn and another of soybean.

The cause of the disturbance, a young man long and lean of limb with a thick mane of ebony hair that lay sweat-matted to his scalp and temples with the exertion of exercise continued to jog at a brisk pace, unaffected by the flight of birds. A soccer uniform and cleats, worn and faded by use, abuse, and more use served as his exercise attire and allowed him freedom of motion as he left the flats for the rise of a hill before him. With rushing breath and pounding heart, the young man doubled his efforts on the incline- his feet falling more swiftly and his legs carrying him powerfully up the rise with each stride.

The hill was quickly overcome, and the path came to a broader crossroads at the junction of four crop plots. The young man, having conquered the challenge of the terrain paused at the junction of paths with a jerky halt very different from the long, graceful strides he had established and worked to maintain. His legs rose and fell at the same pace in mimicry of jogging as he half-turned to look back down the slope that he had just ascended.

"Did you die back there, you wanker?", the young man called in pants down into the crops.

"Fuck off, Cedric!", came the equally breathless reply.

The retort was followed up the hill shortly by a second young man of roughly equal height but of slightly heavier build whose brown hair channeled the sweat into his emerald green eyes and down his neck and back. Far from the nearly threadbare soccer uniform of his jogging companion, the second young man wore an exercise shirt and shorts of a breathable synthetic material with actual jogging shoes intended for that purpose.

Unlike the first jogger, the second only managed to maintain his pace up the hill where first waited and resumed his run with the second. The two ran side by side on the path that led directly west toward the old A-860 and the end of the morning's jog.

"How you ever made right forward…", mused the first jogger, Cedric, tauntingly.

"By taking pity on you and letting you have center.", replied the second.

"Not bloody likely.", Cedric laughed as his lungs allowed the air to do so, "You're dying after a ten kilometer jog- and you're saying that you gave anything to _me_? Today marks the day that Andy Johnson officially lost his last marble."

"It was ten kilometers about _four kilometers ago_.", spat the second runner, the burning of his legs giving him an edginess, "And the only balls you have mastery of over me are the ones slapping your bony thighs right now."

"Well at least your wit is still there, marbles or not.", Cedric said as another plot fell behind the two runners, "It hasn't improved, but it's still there."

Andy let the comment pass being too short on breath to continue the banter and being too proud to want to show it.

"I got my packet yesterday.", Cedric said as though the event was purely a subject for conversation, "You?"

Andy shook his head, "No. I went through yesterday's post. My mum thought I was expecting money. I had to play that off but quick."

Cedric looked at his friend seriously as they turned right to follow the road north, "You're sure? You signed the same day as me."

"I've got eyes.", Andy replied, "It wasn't in the lot. What do you mean, am I sure?"

"Well, maybe your da's gotten…"

Andy managed to force a laugh at the suggestion, "If my da had found that, you'd have heard him go off from Hawkshaw, and I sure as hell wouldn't be in any condition to be doing this."

"You don't seem to be in any condition anyway-.", jabbed Cedric.

"Prick."

"Biggest in the shire.", the young man boasted before continuing soberly, "You'd better check with the post office. I'm supposed to be on a bus north tomorrow at noon. You're likely to be expected on the same one."

"Yeah, Cedie, I know. What can I do?"

"Besides pray that the post office didn't accidentally sort your reporting orders into your da's business mail? Not much."

The thought made Andy's stomach tighten in a cramping pain that he would have preferred to think had come from Cedric's choice of longer jogging paths. He couldn't though, as it was the same feeling he'd gotten every time he'd thought of the argument- the _verbal brawl_ he knew would result when the subject had to be broached. He'd taken much time and applied great effort since Cedric and he had covertly visited the RDF recruiting office off of the town square to imagine all of the variables potential in the argument, and to prepare. All of the scenarios had begun with him breaking the news though, not with an accidental discovery by Dexter Johnson Sr. of his youngest son's enlistment.

Andy's burning muscles suddenly went cold as his imagination played for him the scene of arriving home to find his father waiting for him in the grand foyer, an open letter on official RDF stationary in hand.

Andy shook the thought off and concentrated on the jog. It was only a quirk of the mail.

"Howard's coming home still, right?", Cedric asked.

"This afternoon.", Andy said.

"He'll help.", Cedric suggested, "He's done alright by service, and he had to go through the same scrap with your da."

"He'll help kick my ass, most likely.", Andy said, "I'm the reason Da didn't kill him when he signed on."

"Probably."

Without warning, Cedric indicated the jog was over by dropping out of a running stride into a fast walk. Andy was tempted to make a glib and pointed remark, but in light of his performance over the past two kilometers decided against it.

"He's really on about having you in the office, isn't he?", Cedric asked.

"More than anything.", Andy said woefully, raising his joined hands above his head to stretch the muscles he could feel tightening in his lower back, "But I'll take a quick death over a slow one any day."

Cedric rolled his head from side to side, mired in ambivalence, "He could have a point, you know. Home every night, good food, and the pay is a hell of a lot better. –Maybe he can find a place for me…"

"You _fucking cunt_ -.", Andy growled, "That wasn't the tune you were singing last Thursday. Glad to see you're rock solid behind me on this!.."

Cedric swung half-heartedly at Andy's head, a punch that was dodged easily, "Your da's pulled God-knows how many strings to get you in cozy at university and wants to set you up with a sure-fire job! Who's the fucking cunt?"

Andy scoffed, "Four years of university to have the privilege of taking orders from him at work and at home?… Oh, that's the future I've dreamed of. Plus, I can still do all of that after my term's up. The bloody construction industry should still be around, I think. And who pulled strings? Just because you never got a mark above _average_ don't lump me in."

"Ah…", Cedric said with a nod, "And the donation of free construction of a library had nothing to do with your acceptance? What was I thinking?"

"My da's keen on education…"

"You are a fucking cunt."

Andy relented, "Okay, fine- he paved the road- a little…"

"A lot."

"A lot.", agreed Andy finally, "But, Christ, Cedie- I've _always_ done as he's said. This one's for me."

"Been practicing that one, have you?"

"Yeah-.", Andy replied without hesitation, "How'd I sound?"

"Like a fucking cunt."

The Johnson home had always struck Cedric Collins as manorial in every feudal sense of the word, coincidentally if not intentionally. Andy had never disguised that his family had money and the comforts it could buy that was out of the reach of most residents of Egerton, but he had never carried himself as superior either- which was partially why both friends could enjoy the name " _Fuckingwank Palace_ ", that Cedric had musefully bestowed upon the family home.

If there was some feudal relationship between Dexter Johnson Sr. and the community, it was one of a benevolent lord and faithful vassals. Countless Government contracts with the abundance of construction projects had done very well for Johnson and his company, to the point even where the Government had volunteered to subsidize the company's growth in order to support the volume of work needed to be done. Infrastructure facilities and industrial plants, office complexes and residential flats were rising all over Northwest England under the Johnson Construction banner.

"Old Dex", as he was quietly but commonly referred to by local official and citizen alike, had rebuilt for his family as he had rebuilt for the Government, while at the same time not neglecting his "greater civic duty" in the embodiment of Egerton. Streets and sidewalks were paved and in good order, the water ran clean and the power supply was strong and constant- achieving (mysteriously) a higher quality of living than skeptics would have thought possible through the available Ministry of Reconstruction funds. Residences, many multi-flat dwellings like the one Cedric lived in with his mother, and even some single-family homes now sheltered the town's population. While supplies of household goods and food were sometimes lean, the elements had not claimed a single life locally in over three years.

If there was resentment of the family with the large house behind the high, stone, outer wall- it was muted with the knowledge that Old Dex did more for the commoner than toss table scraps.

The steel gate to the main drive swung open outwardly on sturdy, over-engineered hinges with an electric hum. The gate was as functional as decorative, if not more, being able to withstand the impact of anything but the largest civilian vehicles that could have picked up speed to ram it coming up the winding outer drive that branched off from the main road. Dexter Johnson did not fear revolt from the people of Egerton, but knew all too well that there were still lawless elements that did not appreciate his philanthropy. People could still very easily have their throats cut in their sleep for what they had, and the Johnson family had much more than most.

"Good run, lads?", came the deep gravely voice of Davidson, a fixture of the security staff at the Johnson home, as the young men crossed through the gate.

Cedric and Andy looked to the right of the gate to see the short, stocky man whose round, wrinkled face finished his bulldog appearance. He stood outside the gatehouse, hands in the pockets of his light jacket, and a sub-machinegun hanging by the shoulder strap tucked under his arm.

"Glorious.", Cedric said, flagrantly exaggerating the experience, "You should have come with us. It keeps a man young, getting the blood flowing. Or is it too late?"

Davidson chuckled from deep within his chest and patted the sub-machinegun, "I don't need to run, lad-. I've got twenty-five friends right here that are faster than any bloke I've met yet. Want to try your luck, speedy?"

Cedric called back as he and Andy put more driveway between themselves and the closing gate, "You can't! I'm government property now, didn't you hear? You'd be up on charges."

"Or up for an award.", Andy said, then calling back at the guard, "Did the post come?"

Davidson nodded, "Yes indeed! Up at the house already!"

The side entrance door to the kitchen opened with a click of the electric lock as Andy keyed in the code and pushed his way through. Cedric followed into the kitchen that was larger than the dining and family rooms of his modest apartment together. Pots and pans hung, suspended from a ceiling pan rack that encircled the vent hood for the center island gas range and work area. The smell of morning coffee still hung in the air, though there was no sign of anyone to be seen. The spaces in the Johnson home had always been impressive to Cedric, but what he liked most about the kitchen was that there was always food to be found.

Andy was victim to no such distractions, his search ending before it had begun as he spotted a bundle of letters on the island countertop bound in a rubber band.

"We have orange juice, I think.", Andy offered his friend who had been gravitating toward the large, side-by-side refrigerator where most of the refrigerated groceries were kept. A separate freezer was in the pantry just off the kitchen holding untold treasures.

" _Real_ orange juice?", asked Cedric, opening the refrigerator door with the reverence shown by the clergy in opening the Bible, "As in from _real_ oranges?"

"As of this morning, anyway.", Andy said, rolling the rubber band off the bundle and down his wrist as he shuffled quickly through the day's mail. He went from the first letter to the last without finding the envelope he was searching for, but for good measure went through the stack again..

"Nothing?", Cedric asked, finding two juice glasses in the cabinet and pouring a small amount of juice from the liter container into each.

"No.", Andy said, obviously concerned. He rolled the rubber band back up his wrist, over his hand, and back onto the bundle before setting it down where he had found it and taking an offered glass from his friend.

"Maybe your da bought the RDF?", Cedric suggested.

"I wouldn't put it past him.", Andy admitted, "Want a fag?"

Cedric laughed, "No, I want your family to adopt me."

Andy went to the cabinets built into the wall next to the refrigerator and opened the top door. Rising onto his toes, he moved aside the cookbooks rarely used by Lucy, the cook for having memorized them, and reached far back until he found a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter.

"Aren't you ever worried someone will find those?", Cedric asked as Andy led them out the side door the way they had come in, and down the steps to where they could smoke with the least risk of discovery.

"No.", Andy said as he offered his friend the first cigarette tapped out of the pack, "My mum hasn't set foot in the kitchen in years, and Lucy is too bloody short to see that high."

"Why not keep them in your room?", Cedric asked as the lighter sparked and then produced flame in Andy's hand.

Andy rolled his eyes before lighting his friend's cigarette and then his own, "Bloody hell-. Do you want to talk or smoke?"

"I'll take one of those too."

Both young men nearly jumped out of their skins, not having seen Howard Johnson until he was right on top of them.

Clearly related to Andy in height and facial features, Howard was thicker and sturdier in physical build- in no small part due to the physical conditioning of the RDF Army, whose spotless uniform he wore.

" _Jesus-._ ", swore Andy, feeling his heart begin to slide back down his throat, " _Sneak up on me like that_ …"

"I'm a leftenant in the Army-.", Howard said, pulling a cigarette from the offered pack and lighting it with his own, stainless steel lighter, "I'm a master of concealment and stealthy movement, don't you know?"

"Also a pompous wank.", added Cedric.

"That too.", Howard agreed, "Who, I understand, _you_ will have to call _sir_ before long. How are you, Cedric?"

"I'd be better if you hadn't made me shit my knickers. How'd you know?"

"Saw your mum on the way here… Speaking of which.", Howard said, going into his uniform coat and retrieving an envelope that he handed to Andy, "I snatched that up before we had to call an ambulance for ours. Good Christ, Andy, that had better not be what I think it is."

Andy held his cigarette in the corner of his mouth (a practiced mimicry of a James Dean poster he'd seen once that had become second nature as smoking "poses" applied) as he tore open the envelope and rifled through the three pages that were its contents.

"How badly do you want me to lie?"

Howard dragged thoughtfully on his cigarette for a moment, then said, "You know, Da's going to have a stroke when he hears this. He paid for a library- hell, he practically _bought the university_ to get your application moved to near the top of the pile…"

" _See?!_ ", chimed in Cedric, gleeful at the confirmation.

"Shut up, Cedric, I'm making a point- _wanker_.", Howard scorned mildly before continuing, "Just for that alone, he's going to blow the roof off."

"If he wants university so bad, he can go.", Andy replied, "And the argument is a little moot, don't you think? I'm signed on-."

Andy waved the conclusive evidence of his argument which Howard swiffly snatched and swatted him with across the top of the head.

"You're not joining the bloody Boy Scouts, you daft bugger, you're-."

The lock to the side door clicked and the door opened as three cigarettes were tossed into the nearest flowerbed.

A woman in her mid-fifties leaned through the opening door into the morning air, her brown hair pulled tightly into curlers and her slender form clad in night clothes under a dressing robe. As her gaze swept and fell onto the three to the side of the stairs, she stepped out, pulling her robe closed higher on her chest in an honest reflex of modesty.

"I was wondering where you had gotten off to, Howard-.", she said before her train of thought changed tracks with a nearly audible click in seeing the two other boys, "Oh, and Cedric- dear boy, come here…."

The woman's arms opened warmly as she half descended the stairs to meet the boy and embrace him.

"I spoke to your mother not yesterday afternoon and heard that you're off tomorrow for the Service. Were you going to come by and say goodbye, or just slip off like a thief in the night?"

"Of course I was, Mrs. Johnson.", Cedric said remorsefully, "I'm only going to Scotland- not the Moon. Well, not _yet_ at least."

Loretta Johnson jostled the young man's thick, sweat-matted hair between her hands, "What a horribly brave thing you're doing-. Your poor mother must be pacing the carpet thin."

Howard shot Andy a scornful look that was missed by their mother, to which Andy rolled his eyes dismissively.

"She understands.", Cedric assured his "second mother".

"She's putting on a strong face.", Mrs. Johnson countered, "Bless her heart. The way the world is, it chills a mother's blood to see a child look at a uniform, much less put one on. Dexter's loss nearly killed me, and with Howard in at the same time-. You call your mother regularly or her nerves will be the end of her, do you hear?"

Howard interjected in an attempt to save Cedric from clear distress.

"Mum, look at him. They're going to have a look at this lanky, underfed whelp and send him back on a bus before tea."

Mrs. Johnson released Cedric from her grasp, "If that's all it took, I'd have never have fed you boys so well. –But on the subject, I suppose you can't stay for dinner, can you dear?"

Cedric shook his head, "No'm, Mum's got something special on, she said. Cashed in ration coupons she's been saving for months."

Mrs. Johnson's disappointment was clear and sincere, but dulled by understanding, "That's such a shame- we were able to get a ham as the boys were both going to be home. I do have some lovely jams that I'll have Lucy send you home with for tea."

"Mum-.", Howard cut in again, "You see, it's harping like this that _makes_ a bloke join the Service…"

"You stop, Howard.", Mrs. Johnson scorned, "Cedric is practically my own flesh and blood. And I have to get dressed for lunch at the Ladies' Foundation. Can you believe we're going to be advising Manchester on administration?"

" _Actually_ -."

"That's enough of that, Howard.", Mrs. Johnson said turning to her youngest, "And nothing from my other son?"

Andy stepped up to hug his mother.

Mrs. Johnson, patted the back of her son's head in the embrace, "Oh, you're both so mucky! You really should run inside the gate, you know. God only knows who's lurking in the woods and fields."

"We're fine.", Andy replied confidently

"Everyone is, until they're not.", Mrs. Johnson said, paused, and then asked, "Is something burning out here?"

"A burning rubbish heap we passed.", Cedric explained.

"Oh…", Mrs. Johnson said, opening the door and retreating within, "I mustn't dawdle-. Cedric, you take care, dear boy!.."

The door shut securely, cutting off anything that may have been said thereafter with the barricade of steel and double-paned security glass.

"You signing up suddenly cleared up for me.", Cedric said to Andy.

"Wanker.", was Andy's only reply.

Howard looked to his brother, "So, you're going to pop the news later then?"

"Going to have to."

Howard shook his head, not eager for that time, " _And to think she got a ham_ …."

 **Edwards Air Force Base**

Winters winced as the telephone on the desk of Major General Butler's administrative aide rang with an electronic tone that cut as sharply and deeply as shrapnel into the lieutenant colonel's brain that was far too tender from the previous night for the sound.

Sound, however, was what Winters was fully expecting- and at great volume- once he passed through the polished, dark wood door between the two flags, that led into the general's office. Indications that today would be a bad day began when the two MPs, who now stood sternly by, had greeted him just outside the door to his trailer with an invitation to accompany them. This varied from the routine in that the MPs normally intercepted him somewhere in or around the Knight Hawk flight prep building, and never outside of the main gate. The call to Major General Butler from his aide, Captain Walters, that normally saw Winters ushered in directly today resulted in a wait that had lasted long enough for Winters to take a seat- just over four minutes.

"Yes sir.", Walters said into the phone, "Immediately, sir."

Winters struggled up out of his chair and straightened the line of his flightsuit beneath his jacket before tucking his wheel cap and swagger stick beneath his left arm.

"Is the firing squad assembled, Walters?", Winters asked, removing his sunglasses and finding a new source of pain in the fluorescent office lights.

"The General will see you now, sir.", Walters replied.

"You're the best of the weasels, Walters- never let anyone give you any less.", Winters said, and in passing the MPs said to them, "When you bury me, be chaps and see that I'm facing east toward home."

Winters shut the door to the office behind him softly, quieter than the rapid and aggressive keystrokes hammered out by Major General Butler who sat behind his desk near the large windows that looked out over the distant flight line and Rogers Lake. Butler gave no sign of acknowledgement of the lieutenant colonel as the pilot presented himself squarely before his desk and stood at something near attention.

Major General Arnold Butler was a man of equal height and build to Winters, and was every bit as fit beneath his uniform as he had been when he too had been a pilot. As he vigorously attacked the keyboard before him, his eyes locked on the thin, flat-panel monitor, Winters knew and was acutely aware that Butler was not only conscious of his presence but studying him. Butler had the peculiar quality of being able to focus on many things at once, and in doing so keeping anyone who might be the subject of that focus uneasily alert.

Butler, undistracted, stabbed out the last keystrokes required to complete his task and smoothly transitioned to his next order of business.

"Good morning, Jack- please, have a seat.", Butler said, motioning to the two comfortably functional chairs that sat opposite his desk.

"Thank you, sir.", Winters said, sinking gratefully into the chair closest to him.

Butler rose from his own chair, rounded his desk, and casually sat on the polished wood corner. He and Winters sat in silence with the exception of the air conditioning's soft blowing and the hum of the fluorescent lights. The weight of Butler's gaze on Winters was heavier though. The lieutenant colonel could feel it penetrate him- root around, as though in search of the most tender areas of his aching body and brain.

"You did want to see me, sir?", Winters asked.

"What ever gave you that impression, Jack?", Butler replied flatly.

"Well", Winters said, thumbing over his shoulder at the door, "the two rough chaps with no necks and _MP_ on their sleeves who picked me up at home and said that the base commander wanted to see me-. That was my first clue, sir."

" _Ah, that_.", Butler said, "I suppose that would have been an indication. Let me ask you another question, Jack."

"Please."

Butler nodded, "Why are you trying to destroy my base?"

Winters suppressed the urge to shift in his seat, "Well, I-."

Butler shook his head, "No, no- don't talk. Don't talk yet. Let me lay out for you the highlights of my day yesterday and last night. I had a surprise visit from NORAMWEST yesterday- you know who that is, don't you?"

"Lieutenant General Hume, I believe sir."

"Very good, Jack- be quiet again now.", Butler said, and in continuing his cheeks began to flush red, "So, we're sitting here in my office discussing the operational future and responsibilities of this base, _my_ base- and a call comes in on that phone, right over there, that one of my pilots has brandished a sidearm at his ground crew. I'm not going to ask about that though, Jack, as no one on the flight line is willing to say that they saw anything. Fortunately, that scrap of _disconcerting_ news came with the fact that a flight of my fighters had been instrumental in bailing out an Army unit that had been ambushed. Needless to say, I shared that with NORAMWEST and he was thrilled to the point of wanting to meet the pilots."

Butler shifted on his desk, working the air before him with his hands as he continued, "Now, nod when this starts to sound familiar. NORAMWEST and his aides go out to a local watering hole, that I believe you are acquainted with, to pat these intrepid pilots on the back for a job well done…. But somehow, I get a call at zero-one-thirty this morning from _my_ boss that those same pilots.. no, wait.. a _particular_ pilot, and I won't mention names- _you_ \- performed elective cosmetic surgery on the face of one of his aides with a bat. Does this ring a bell, Jack?"

There was no way around what had to happen next, Winters knew- the pink color of Butler's face showed that the pressure had built up within beyond the point of safe release. It was better just to bring it on.

"In all fairness, sir- it was a swagger stick."

Butler ran his hands over his face and through his hair as though the motion would sweep away the pink color that was now going to red.

"Do you know why you're in my office, and not the stockade, Jack?"

"I was wondering, sir. I suspect it has something to do with a fillet knife and a salt shaker though."

Butler shook his head, " _Tempting_ , but _no_. You are here, Jack, because I am a fair man- fair to a _flaw_ in this case. Do you know why I say this?"

"I-."

" _No_.", Butler said, cutting the lieutenant colonel off, "I didn't really want you to answer that- I'll tell you. I'm an exceedingly fair man because after I spent an hour having my boss scream at me, I spoke to your exec, Colonel-select Mumuni, and again this morning to Lieutenant General Hume looking for some kind of mitigating circumstance that would allow me not to shoot you. Apparently, and this was by Hume's admission as well this morning, there was a large quantity of alcohol involved, and the aide that you- _attacked_ \- was being something less than a gentleman to Rio. After long discussion with NORAMWEST, it was agreed that the issue could be dropped with a letter of reprimand to add to the collection in your jacket- with conditions."

"Conditions, sir?", Winters asked cautiously. It was becoming clear that Butler, somehow, was not going to resort to an extended verbal barrage.

Butler folded his arms over his chest, his face having returned back to the cautionary pink.

"Nigel, how long have we known each other?"

"Since about four days after the Creation, sir."

Butler nodded, "Saudi Arabia in ninety-two, if I remember correctly. You were a lieutenant then, so was I- and you were also a human being. Since then, you've had billets, worked projects, and won enough medals that I should be calling you _sir_ , but you've also managed to screw-up, and piss off enough people that you won't likely ever get your bird back even- let alone, advance. We've been friends a long time, Nigel, and I won't even try to say that I'm not a major reason why you still wear a uniform. I can help you, prop you up, but I can't save you altogether. You're killing yourself professionally with stunts like yesterday and last night, and you're killing yourself in a real sense with that demon with the wild turkey on the bottle. I'm not screaming right now, because I'm concerned about one of my officers and a friend."

Winters maintained the discipline to not let his head roll as Butler channeled his father from the netherworld.

"So, should I swap out the silver oak leaves for my old gold ones, or-?"

"Are you still seeing Dr. Keopel?", Butler asked bluntly.

The question caught Winters off guard, but he replied simply, "No."

"Why not? I don't remember telling you to stop."

"It wasn't going anywhere.", Winters explained, "And I don't remember you ordering me to go, either."

"Don't try me, Jack.", Butler warned, then continued, "Look, things happen, people take hard knocks-. You've had more than your fair share in the last six or seven years. Talking about it helps sometimes. You ought to go back."

"The problem is that the world is on the shit heap.", Winters replied, "Talking about it won't help that. Besides, I don't need a shrink- I drink."

"Yeah, I know.", Butler said, "An FYI- bourbon is a beverage, not aftershave. You haven't lost your edge, Nigel- you're just walking on it. You're holding on too tight for your own good, for your squadron's good- for this command's good."

Winters found himself tapping his foot. The nervous tick had begun without his conscious decision and continued beyond his control.

"Are you grounding me?"

Butler shook his head, "Hell no. I don't have pilots to spare, and besides- you'd drink yourself to death in boredom within a week."

"I would have given me four days."

"Shut up and listen, Nigel.", Butler instructed, "NORAMWEST is taking on additional responsibilities in transportation of supplies and food to distribution centers in Mexico, as well as Central and South America. This afternoon, we're expecting four transport pods to arrive from the supply hub in Quebec. Tomorrow, it has to go on to Salvador, Brazil. I was going to assign the Vigilantes the escort detail, but I want the Knight Hawks to do it instead."

"I'm on edge", Winters clarified, "So you want me to lead my squadron, and four transports full of food, supplies, and the other goodies that every _bandito_ would love to get their little grubbies on into the middle of the Zentraedi Control Zone? I heard that correctly, right?"

Butler smiled grimly, "Say what you will about the Southern Cross, they do seem to have a lid on the Zentraedi activity that affects military traffic in the area. Look, you fly the groceries down to the ASC base at Salvador, you have them sign off on delivery, unload, and we route you back with a day or two layover at the base in Rio de Janeiro. Get some sun, lie on the beach, swim in the ocean, perform a survey of thong bikinis- whatever you need to do to get your head on straight. I thought it was a good idea myself, but what do I know- I'm just a major general."

"That being said-."

"Watch your step, Jack.", Butler warned, "And considering the alternative, considering you did knock five teeth out of a full colonel's head…"

Winters put on his best German, " _Cooler, thirty days…_ "

"Yeah- pack your bags.", Butler said, "Flight Ops will have the details for you, and I better not hear about anything more serious in this operation than a sunburn. You can go now, Jack."

Winters rose from his seat, "Thank you, sir."

"Oh, and Jack-.", Butler said as Winters made his way toward the door, his headache suddenly gone.

"Sir?"

"Off the record, between you and me-. The guy you thumped was a prick. I'm glad you busted his head for putting his hands on Rio. Is she okay?"

"Chipper as ever, sir."

Butler sat in his chair and resumed his work, "Get out of my office, Lieutenant Colonel Winters."

"Yes sir."

The desert sun, though not high on the horizon, burned already with a merciless intensity as Winters stepped out of the base administrative building- donning his sunglasses and leather wheel cap. Lt. Col. Dalton and Maj. Vincenz stood nearby to the door, smoking on either side of the ash pot set outside of the building for that purpose.

"He's still alive", Dalton said, holding his hand out to Vincenz palm up, "Cough it up."

Vincenz reluctantly but quickly skinned two bills off a small, folded wad retrieved from his pocket and pressed them into the XO's hand. The speed of the transaction was similar to Vincenz in theory as the argument that a bandage removed quickly hurts less.

Winters joined the other two pilots at the ash pot and rummaged for his own cigarettes long enough to cause Dalton to surrender up his pack to his superior.

"Thank you, Freddy.", Winters said, taking an offered smoke and lighting it with his Zippo.

"So, do I still have to salute you?", Dalton asked, dragging on his smoke to where the filter would have been- had they been filtered cigarettes.

"Regrettably so.", Winters replied, "And you have to pretend to respect me too."

"Now that's asking a lot.", Dalton said, taking a last puff before tossing the butt into the receptacle, "Seriously- what's up? I thought I was going to be shelling out ten to Vice."

"Get bent, Buster.", Vincenz grumbled.

Winters shrugged, "Would you believe we're up for a holiday?"

"You're yankin' my crank, right?", Dalton laughed, "And define _holiday_."

"We hold the hands of some transport chaps down to Salvador, and then have a day or two layover in Rio de Janeiro. That kind of holiday."

"How in the name of the saints did you swing that?", Vincenz asked, visibly stunned.

"Don't know.", Winters replied, "Old Arnie was talking something that sounded like the King's English- but the brain just wasn't having it this morning."

"Still saturated with bourbon.", Dalton suggested, "Christ- it sounds too good to be true- so what's the catch?"

Winters shifted his gaze pensively between the other two pilots, "Escorting four transports fat with loot across the outlands and fifteen-hundred kilometers of Zentraedi Control Zone to hand it off to the Army of the Southern Cross-?… What catch?"

"The boys'll like this one anyway.", Dalton admitted.

Vincenz gave a small laugh, then said, "Say, Jack- next time belt the general-. Maybe we could get a week at Club Med?"

Winters ignored the suggestion, "Freddy, rally up the chaps. Wang is on at fourteen-thirty. We're on the hook for the beer and crisps."

 **Brasilia, Brazil: The Zentraedi Control Zone**

To many, the symbolism of a Zentraedi population majority having taken residence in Brasilia was lost.

Conceived of in the 1950s, and hewn from the darkness of the Amazonian interior on mountain highlands, Brasilia had been built with the greatest effort to begin its history as a modern city. The central Federal District, butterfly-like in its layout of roads, plazas, and buildings, as well as the outlying residential districts had all been the realization of meticulous planning rather than of evolutionary chance as had steered the growth of other prominent cities of the world.

The Holocaust of the Zentraedi attack had reduced Brasilia, like most other major cities, to a near pre-industrial state- but in having its modern "shine" scoured away, Brasilia still found itself able to claim itself as _avant_. As likely to have happened anywhere, South America, and in particular Brazil had been the focal point for the landing of millions of Zentraedi marooned or abandoned in the chaos of Dolza's defeat, and the retreat of the tattered remains of his forces into space.

Initial disorder, unrest, and outright conflict between human and Zentraedi on the continent and in the cities had quickly found a cinergy followed by a heterogeneous, copasetic coexistence. Counter to any logical expectation, human Brasilia and Zentraedi Brasilia stood as almost two separate entities bound in the same geography.

Humans had been quick to reconstruct and reoccupy traditional dwellings whereas the Zentraedi, not yet indoctrinated and initially unfamiliar with forms of shelter other than field camps and the berthing areas of space cruisers, had reverted to bivouacking in neatly organized, makeshift tent cities where the space and materials allowed.

Socialization programs over the years, combined with the rise and the overt assertion of power by the ASC had blurred the lines slightly between the dwelling styles of human and Zentraedi- but distinct ghettos and micro-cultures were still prevalent to the point of being nearly self-governing. The threat of the ASC's iron fist prevented gross or mass acts of lawlessness between human and alien, but in truth- under the cover of darkness, on the side streets and in the back alleys it was the tension of the other that kept both human and Zentraedi in order and out of areas where their presence was undesired. For the time, fear and mistrust kept a fragile peace.

Despite Brasilia's unstable social atmosphere, it could rightfully claim still that it was a city of the future with human and Zentraedi living side by side. And to many the achievement was promising- as long as they did not look too deeply into the reality.

Lilith had looked far too deeply into the reality for far too long as her profession and occupation had required of her.

There was not a street in Brasilia that she could walk, nor a room that she could enter where she was capable of being unaware of each and every Zentraedi, their disposition as it could be surmised by observation, and the likelihood that they were a threat. At times, Lilith wondered if there was a street or a room left in the world where she could find the peace she had known only years before- in another reality. For now though, and with better hopes for the future, this was her world.

A large part of Lilith's world, for the moment, was the café. The work did not at all appeal to her, but like all in the new reality of the world, she had to accept necessary evils.

The café was situated at the corner of the eighth and top floor of what had been a government office building in a time when Brazil had been in need of its own government. Repaired quickly and pressed into immediate use, the building like many in Brasilia- like many in the world for that matter- was a structure that was home to a mix of uses. Residences, offices, shops of various types, and the café coexisted as improbably as the residents of the city. The café had not always been there- but true to the transitory nature of the world it was there, at least for now.

The café of "now" was not an unpleasant place to have a drink or take a meal of light fare when the customer base was of the individual's persuasion. At the moment, Lilith and David behind the bar included, the café would have been a very uncomfortable place for humans.

A dozen tables normally stood about the café's inside floor with adequate spacing to allow guests at each to carry on private conversations, while a half dozen more were arranged on the veranda outside through a set of double doors. Today- in response to a requirement that had been voiced quietly only the night before, and which had caused a rush of preparations by Lilith and David- six of the inside tables had been made into one.

On a single side of the large, assembled table, a half dozen male Zentraedi in plain clothes similar to and reminiscent of Zentraedi uniforms with their tunic shirts and matching trousers sat patiently and with a sense of security. They had all been customers before, appearing alone or sometimes in pairs. Neither Lilith nor David had seen them together and all at once. The significance of the gathering was not lost on the Zentraedi either, as for each individual at the table, a bodyguard stood remotely yet attentively.

"This could get nasty.", David said, setting chilled balls of _copaiba_ on a serving plate as a stainless steel kettle of tea steeped on the serving tray Lilith had set on the bar. The gummy balls of stimulant resin, made from the legumes of the copaifera tree were a popular favorite with Zentraedi customers, especially when ingested with another recent discovery of the aliens- cigarettes. Much more intense than the buzz of strong coffee, but not so great as narcotics and without the addictive quality, copaiba went with tea to the Zentraedi as regularly as sugar- which to David's thinking, the aliens consumed a great quantity too. Rarely did the bartender see the aliens at the café consume alcohol. It was known to them, but for many the taste was too foreign to be palatable. David preferred to think that the aliens were just more partial to a good "upper".

"That it could.", agreed Lilith, emptying a bud vase of its water into the bar sink from her side of the counter, "I think they could use a little color on their table don't you? Let me have it."

David glanced hesitantly at the six empty chairs remaining at the table, "Not yet. He's not even here yet. It evaporates quickly, remember- if you pop it too soon."

"Yeshta's punctual. He'll be here.", Lilith said, insisting, "Pop it."

"Your call.", David said, bringing a small plastic water bottle out from below the bar and twisting the cap off, breaking the carefully seated airtight seal. He poured the contents into the bud vase Lilith had just emptied, filling the bulb of the vessel completely before Lilith replaced the three orchids the vase had contained.

Lilith checked the contents of her tray: tea service for twelve, copaiba for the same, and the vase of flowers.

"Let's get on with it."

The waitress squatted to heft the tray onto her shoulder, picking up a tray jack that leaned against the bar as she rose. She moved directly to the table, careful to maintain the balance of the tray she carried. Beyond the table at which the aliens spoke quietly amongst themselves in the Zentraedi dialect of the Tirolian language, two of the guards watched her movements with mild interest. The shotguns they carried openly had had their trigger guards sawed off to allow for larger fingers, and the weapons despite their savage power still looked to Lilith like toys in the grips of the giants who averaged just under two and a half meters in height.

Lilith was ignored by the Zentraedi at the table as she set her tray on the jack and began to arrange its contents on the table. The bud vase went first onto the center of the table, the level of the liquid in the bulb not quite to the level to which David had filled it. Lilith dismissed the possibility that she had been too hasty, and laid out cups and saucers for the Zentraedi.

The alien closest to Lilith reached easily across the table, rising only slightly from his chair, and took the plate of copaiba . He transferred a still-solid ball of the chilled resin directly from the plate to his mouth as Lilith set out the cream substitute and sugar before pouring the tea.

As Lilith poured, she became instantly aware that the attention of the Zentraedi had shifted to the café door behind her. Conversation dropped off, and Lilith hurried to complete her waitress duties.

Yeshta, not noticeably larger in the physical sense than any of the other male Zentraedi in the café, entered the room with five companions of his own, an additional two guards, and an air of command that was irrefutable. His dress was similar to that of the Zentraedi at the table who now rose in respect to greet him, resembling the imperial uniform. Yeshta's attire was adorned with the additional touch of the badge of the rank of action commander pinned to either collar.

"Yeshta, you bring only two guards.", said an alien of equal size from the opposite side of the table in Zentraedi, "You have accepted then that we had nothing to do with the death of Vohst?"

"I have, Dornian.", Yeshta said, "I brought only two guards as a symbol of faith. I see, however, that you brought six."

Dornian nodded as he and Yeshta took their seats opposite one another, signaling their respective parties to be seated as well.

"Your disposition was unclear, and this meeting unexpected. You will have to forgive my caution. Neither of us are fools, Yeshta- and let us speak candidly- there is considerable friction between us."

"I understand your caution", Yeshta granted, "but as we are being candid, let's not ignore the fact that much of the _friction_ has been caused by your inability to submit to the chain of command, Sub-Commander."

Dornian plucked a copaiba ball from the plate and dipped it twice into his cup of tea before releasing it into the steaming, caramel brown liquid.

"Yeshta, don't refer to me by a slave's title.", Dornian replied bluntly as he stirred the resin into his tea, "Whether you wish to admit it or not, warriors follow me now for the same reason they follow you- because they _choose_ to follow your leadership. _Action commander_ is just a pair of related words now- it has no substance. I have as many followers as you, and both our numbers keep growing. It has nothing to do with rank though. I agreed to meet with you because on our present course, conflict is inevitable. We have the same goal- to leave this world and return to our place with our own kind. We may differ in method, but I acknowledge that we can do more to reach our goal together than in conflict."

"You say you want to return to our own kind", snapped Yeshta's aide seated to his right, "but yet you abandon The Warrior's Code in your disrespect to your superior!.."

Yeshta raised a hand, arresting the assault from his aide, "Byah, I will speak for our side."

The aide silenced himself and bore a stoic face at his commander's slight reprimand.

Yeshta continued to the other leader, "Byah is much like you, Dornian. He has the warrior's nature to fight- to take what we need from the micronians on our terms and to return to our proper place as quickly as we can find the means. Unlike you though, he has the wisdom and patience to pause and consider that whether we are actively engaged or not, we are surrounded by an enemy. The micronians tolerate us at best and would destroy us if they were not as crippled as we. I know that you did not kill Vohst, _they_ killed him. They killed him, as they would kill me because I am organizing those that think as we do. They would kill me because I am reassembling the ranks of true warriors who refuse their attempts to assimilate us. _They_ killed Vohst as they would kill you, Dornian, because you lead warriors to take what they require. You lead warriors as I do, but you lack discipline. Discipline, and unity in our beliefs is what will save us from this world."

Dornian shook his head, "You say you lead warriors, Yeshta? Lead them in what? Assemblies? Gather them to hear you speak? To march the streets in units and columns? -And for what? To take hand-outs from the micronians! _I take_ what I need. The Warrior's Code applies out in our place. Here, we must do what we must to survive and return to that place as quickly as possible. We can then resume the ways of the Code."

"The Warrior's Code always applies.", Yeshta countered, "It is what defines us. You cannot set it down when it is inconvenient and then pick it up again. If you abandon it and its rigors, you destroy yourself as Zentraedi. You give the micronians a weapon to use against you. You also display a lack of understanding of the micronians- a lack of understanding of the enemy. That is a bad way to fight, Dornian."

"So, instruct me."

Lilith had joined David at the bar again. The discussion in Zentraedi was hushed with occasional outbursts and rises in volume- but the pace of exchange was rapid.

"What are they saying?", David asked under his breath as he made himself busy polishing glasses as a person in his position would be expected to.

"My Zentraedi isn't great.", Lilith replied, "They're talking fast, and you're not helping."

"Micronians are not like us, Dornian.", Yeshta explained with the confidence of extensive thought on the subject, "We are beings of action, and they define themselves and govern their decisions by words. Listen to their communications- they speak, and speak, and _speak_ before committing to lifting a single finger in anything. They speak so much that they can talk and convince themselves into _anything_. We are surrounded by enemies, Dornian, make no mistake- but they would rather _talk_ than _fight_. They want to be rid of us all the same- but they would rather talk. If by word and argument we can convince them that we want to leave- to part ways without a shot fired- we will gain grudging support even amongst our staunchest enemies. What we do after is completely our decision- then it will be a time for action."

Dornian cracked a small, very slight smirk of amusement, "So you suggest that we tell them what they want to hear and they will simply give us the means to leave this world? You're a fool, Yeshta."

Byah, who had been pre-occupying himself with drinking his tea paused in contempt for the sub-commander's insubordination. Yeshta remained unaffected by the comment and composed, so his lieutenant grappled with his compulsions to do the same.

""Am I?", Yeshta replied, "More or less than you? For all your raids and organized looting, what do you have? A small heap of supplies. I have control of three downed cruisers in jungles to the north…"

"Three downed _wrecks_.", Dornian corrected.

"Three wrecks, _under repair_.", Yeshta countered, "The micronians speak of me as _constructive_ in my efforts- even if my goal disturbs them. You though, Dornian, inspire only fear among the micronians. They may not have moved to crush you yet, but it will come to that. Don't run blindly toward a cliff."

"And that's your argument? That is why I should support you?"

"By yourself, following the path you are on", Yeshta reasoned, "where do you see yourself in a season? In a year? Do you really expect to have the freedom of the stars again- or are you just slashing wildly in the darkness and enjoying the support of frustrated warriors that it brings you?"

"I-.", Dornian began to respond.

The shatter of porcelain on the floor drew the attention of both Zentraedi to Byah at Yeshta's right.

The aide's head was cocked oddly to one side, his hand still crooked in the position to hold the cup that was now shards on the floor. A visible tremor ran through the fingers and forearm as full attention now focused on Yeshta's lieutenant.

The tremor exploded into a violent spasm that toppled Byah over backward in his chair and sent tables flying as the other Zentraedi at the table recoiled from the convulsing form.

" _Oh shit-."_ , escaped Lilith's lips before she could choke the words back.

Attention and firm suspicion of treachery had already swung in her direction through the hateful glare of the Zentraedi meeting parties and their guards.

Lilith vaulted and rolled over the bar, vanishing below the counter as David brought out the sawed-off, double-barrel 10-gauge shotgun that had been concealed so carefully in an improvised hidden compartment below the bar the night before.

The weapon roared twice within the café, rattling the windows in their frames and the bottles of alcohol on the glass shelves along the bar mirror. The buckshot loads of the barrels sent the massive forms of two of Dornian's guards through the plate glass windows of the café onto the veranda where they lay motionless in the places they fell.

Shocked, but incredibly quick to recover by battle hardening, two other guards from Dornian's party who had been standing closest to their now slain comrades returned fire with great speed and accuracy- each getting off two shots from their pump-action weapons before David could dive safely for cover. The heavy shot of four 12-guage rounds reduced the man behind the bar to a mangled horror show above the waist as the body was flipped up into the shelving behind the bar, shattering bottle and shelf alike and raining down the fragments in a cascade of glass and alcohol.

Yeshta's guards were keener of purpose, seizing their leader and practically carrying him out in a rush even as Dornian's guards began to pump buckshot through the pressed wood structure of the bar in a blind assault on the unseen waitress turned apparent assassin. The unarmed Zentraedi scrambled, some for the door through which Yeshta had been carried, others in whatever direction would carry them out of the path of fire.

An object, spherical and green arced over the bar from an area relatively unmarred by shotgun fire.

" _Down!_ ", bellowed one of the guards in Zentraedi as the object reached the apex of its flight and tumbled toward the center of the café floor.

Warriors flattened themselves in defense from the plastic squeeze-bottle of lime juice that spilled its contents on impact.

The guard who had called the warning was first to recognize the bluff and was halfway to a standing position when a well-grouped spray of .45 caliber bullets ripped his chest apart in a spray of blue Zentraedi blood and felled him heavily into a spreading pool of lime juice.

Lilith crouched behind the bar, both arms balanced at the elbows on the countertop to steady the sub-machinegun pistols in each hand. A quick burst from each knocked down a guard each in a hail of heavy pistol slugs. Lilith then swung both weapons in the direction of the remaining guard who had retained the sense to take his best shot from the prone position.

Automatic pistols and shotgun fired at the same moment.

Lilith felt the bar explode before her in a tempest of splinters below the counter. The force lifted her from her feet and seemed to slam her to the floor again in the puddle of booze, David's blood, and broken glass. A sharp pain radiated from her left thigh as she struggled to her feet again, still clutching the pistols.

The Zentraedi guard, shotgun still in his right hand, was finding his footing as his bullet-tattered left arm swung uselessly at his side, streaming blood that dripped freely from his fingertips.

As the unarmed Zentraedi began to flee in earnest, Lilith centred the sights of both pistols on the guard and cut him down with two blasts.

Shell casings were still clattering about the bar's counter and floor as she drew down on the retreating mass converging on the café's door. The clips of both pistols went empty into the backs of three of Dornian and Yeshta's lieutenants who were trampled under by the flight of the others to escape.

Dornian had chosen to stay and fight.

A table, weighing nearly as much as Lilith herself, was hurled into her, flattening her against the rear wall of the bar. Lilith found the table resting atop her as she discarded the now useless pistols and began to shift the weight of the piece of furniture off of her aching ribs where it had struck her. Her efforts were unnecessary though as a Zentraedi fist smashed the reduced countertop with a single, powerful downward blow and in the same motion took her ankle in its grasp. Lilith felt more of the bar disintegrate around her as she was jerked violently through a hole opened by buckshot a moment before she was flung to the floor.

Dornian's raised heel hovered over Lilith's head for a moment, building strength and taking aim for a crushing strike. Lilith rolled away with its descent and came to her feet, drawing a double-edged knife from a concealed, inverted scabbard on her right calf as she rose.

Seeing the knife, Dornian put his weight behind a punch thrown directly at Lilith's head. Lilith ducked beneath, swiping with the knife as she stepped through the attack. The razor edge of the super alloy blade cut easily and cleanly through fabric and muscle, striking rib at the exit point of the incised wound it made.

Dornian made a grunt of shock more than pain as his legs failed him and he went to his knees, his intestines spilling partially into his own hands with the force of his landing.

Lilith whirled with the knife again, opening the right side of the Zentraedi's neck to the spine with a single swipe and then completing the task by plunging the blade to the hilt through the alien's heart as he went over backwards.

Lilith realized she was saturated in the evidence of her work as agitated shouts in distinct Zentraedi accompanied the rapid approach of heavy running footsteps from the hall outside the café. With no time to consider another method, Lilith bolted for the veranda exercising exit option "B".

Near the shattered windows that David had opened in killing the first two Zentraedi guards, Lilith toppled a table for two and snatching the gun duct taped to the underside that had been concealed by the draping of the tablecloth. Glass crunched beneath her running feet as she took the gun into her right hand while thrusting her left into her trouser pocket.

A shotgun blast boomed behind her and Lilith could feel the passage of shot through the hair by her left ear as her hand found the small remote control in her pocket and double-clicked the trigger. With the gun in her right hand pointed into the concrete of the patio- Lilith jerked that trigger as well.

A tungsten steel piton fired and set fast into the concrete of the deck and trailed a wire as Lilith hurled herself over the edge of the roof.

The world spun above her, but Lilith managed to find the second handle on the gun before the wire went taut and slowed her freefall with a violent jerk. Lilith bounced off the tempered glass wall of the building, feeling it tug at her clothes and exposed skin in her rapid descent as the structure shook with the power of an explosion above. Looking up, the blue of the sky was obscured for a moment by a rolling ball of orange flame and black smoke that rolled over the building's edge in much the same way as water would overflow a rapidly filled vessel.

The sidewalk around the building met Lilith unflinchingly, knocking the wind out of her as she flattened in a clumsy break-fall onto her back. As passers-by and onlookers studied her in utter amazement, Lilith rolled into the building wall and tucked herself into a tight ball to shield from the rain of debris that followed a moment later.

Yelps and cries of surprise accompanied the scatter of the sparse gathering of witnesses in the shower of glass and concrete bits. Lilith was on her feet again, unsteadily but able to move before attention had returned to her.

Running for the street before she was conscious of running, the squeal of tires on pavement brought her attention to the approach of the sight that she most wanted to see. A battered and rusted blue sedan rushed toward her up the street and slowed sufficiently as it came abreast to her to allow Lilith to dive into the rear seat through the missing rear left window before accelerating again and vanishing into the anonymity of traffic composed of similarly dilapidated automobiles.

" _Fucking Christ, Lilith!.."_ , stammered the driver as he threw the car around a right turn, and then weaved through traffic to make an almost immediate left before decelerating to avoid attracting attention, "Your orders were to take out the target, not _the fucking building!_ "

Lilith's chest heaved still for breath in the back seat as she panted her reply, " _That.. had been.. the plan…_ "

"David?", asked the driver.

Lilith sat up in the worn and cracking vinyl of the rear seat, shaking her head, "Dead. Guards got him almost right off- that was a definite."

"And the target?- Yeshta?"

"Escaped-.", Lilith said, "Maybe wounded by the demolition charges- but the way his guards had him hauling ass outta there- probably not."

"Damnit, Lilith!..", growled the driver, "It took months to get a shot like this!"

" _I fucking know, Cain!_ ", Lilith snapped back, "I've been in on it since the go! -Oh, and by the way, you can tell the boys in the lab that I'm going to take great pleasure in putting my foot up each of their asses in turn! That customized virus of theirs killed the wrong goddamn ditto!"

"What?", asked the driver, astonished. The building was now blocks behind, but the sound of sirens from emergency vehicles could be heard clearly as they rushed to the scene.

"What do you mean the virus killed the wrong one?", Cain repeated.

"How many meanings does the phrase have?", Lilith said snidely, noticing at once the uncontrollable tremors in her own hands that reminded her of Byah's first dying twitches.

"Lilith, it was genetically customized fucking virus-.", Cain replied, "If it killed one of the others, then you gave the lab the wrong sample."

"Whatever.", Lilith said dismissively, "But they said it would take at least fifteen, and more like twenty minutes to kill-. Try about five. The fucker tipped our hand and spun the situation completely out of control before we could get a lid on it."

Cain shook his head, "I wouldn't want to be in your place filing this report, Lilith."

The magnitude of the event began to take hold as Lilith reasoned out loud, "It wasn't a complete loss. Dornian's history, I'm sure about that- and I got three lieutenants… I don't know which though."

"Still-.", Cain said cautiously.

Lilith was done listening.

"Just drive the damn car, Cain."

"Okay.", Cain agreed, letting the conversation and the moment go, "You'd better cover up- you're a mess. My jacket is back there somewhere."

"Thanks.", Lilith said.

The numbness was beginning to set in.

 **Camp Conrad, The Amazon River Basin**

Sergeant Major Devin "Big Mac" MacDonald stepped out of the NCO hut into the bathing heat and humidity of the day. He pulled a worn boonie cap and sunglasses from the pocket of his BDU blouse and put both on to offset the assault of the high tropical sun.

Though meteorologically in the dry season of late summer, MacDonald found that the term "dry" was relative. Having grown up along the Louisiana coast, he found the Amazon Basin on its driest day to be comparable to Louisiana's sultry heat at its worst.

MacDonald, an imposing black man of considerable physical dimensions, ventured out from the precious shade of the hut's small awning and onto the roughly hewn planks of the wooden walkway constructed by the engineers that creaked beneath his weight and large jungle boots. The "hut", so called by most as one of many was actually a dwelling of pre-fabricated components that a platoon of engineers could assemble in half a day to include the electrical system for the lights and the luxury of air conditioning. Camp Conrad had been established nearly a year before, and initially had the appearance of a set in an old war movie with its groupings of tents and connecting muddy paths. Time, and the ingenuity and persistence of the combat engineers had steadily improved the quality of life though as Conrad's population had swelled to its present level of just under six thousand combat troops, logistics, transport, and support personnel.

No longer were troops required to sleep in tents, as the RDF Army had provided relatively comfortable if not slightly cramped "hut" barracks for all just to the northwest of the camp CP. Segregated naturally between enlisted personnel, NCOs, and officers the living was still better than that enjoyed by many if not most civilians outside of "The Zone". Mess tents, storage areas, and the camp field hospital had all similarly given way to semi-permanent structures to the point that the sight of green nylon on aluminum framing was the exception and not the rule. Latrines and washrooms were still their own entity, and the "clean-up" involved in them still a popular disciplinary punishment, but the camp did have its amenities to include nightly movies in the large motor pool building. One could almost forget where Conrad was situated, if it were not for the constant incursion of the jungle.

"Hey, Top!..", came a drawling Tennessee voice as MacDonald strode in heavy steps along the board walkway, "That's real swell'a ya to come on down `n help out!"

Ahead and off to the right of the walkway that led from "NCO Land" to "Officers' Country" (closer in to the CP than the enlisted's "Gruntsville") MacDonald saw two of his privates first class dipping and bending at work with entrenching tools at opening rain gulleys from the previous afternoon and night's storms in preparation for this afternoon and evening's anticipated storms. For all of the miracles worked by the RDF-A Corps of Engineers, a drainage system not in need of constant maintenance was not among them. Concrete form sluices would simply fill up with the same fine clay that lay just below the rich topsoil of the cleared rainforest. The best, and only real solution was for "volunteers" to work in teams on sections of the drainage system daily. The work was tedious, but during the dry season not particularly laborious. That would come with the daily thunderstorms of the fall.

"No can-do, Bixby.", MacDonald said, stopping by where the young enlisted man, Bixby, worked next to PFC Cortez, "You know how I hate to get grit under my nails. Besides, I got to go see the Captain and then pick up your new louie."

"Need us to carry you over any puddles, Top?", Cortez asked, the sweat of work having streamed clear paths through the spattering of mud on his face.

"That isn't dignified work for Rangers, Cortez!", MacDonald laughed.

"Yeah, `n this is.", Bixby laughed in reply.

"Think of it as repelling an offensive by nature, Ranger.", MacDonald suggested, "What? You'd rather be playing cards and drinking bear somewhere?"

"Is there a game on?", Bixby asked hopefully.

"Yeah", replied the sergeant major, "But you ain't gonna see it, `cause I'm gonna have you burnin' shit from the crap house if you don't get back to work."

Bixby dove back into his work with Cortez, "You're a hard man, Top."

"Comes with the stripes and rockers.", MacDonald said as he continued toward Officers' Country.

"Say hi to Uncle Ho for us!", Cortez called after.

Unlike NCO Land or Gruntsville, Officers' Country had a perceivable internal strata all its own. Lower echelon officers, the second and first lieutenants, occupied barracks style huts not unlike those in which the NCOs were barracked. Slightly more space was afforded for these officers than their NCO subordinates, and fewer occupants were assigned to a hut. Officers of the grade of captain or major were assigned to "hooches" in pairs, closer in to the CP. Only Colonel Strunk, the camp commander enjoyed single occupancy quarters complete with its own running water, shower, and latrine.

It was among the hooches that MacDonald sought out the CO of 4th Rangers, Echo Company, Captain Duc Ho Nguyen.

MacDonald found the hooch easily, and could have found it as readily in the dark. He rapped his knuckles on the door and waited.

"Come in."

MacDonald opened the door and stepped up and inside, removing his cover as he entered and shut the door behind him. The air conditioning was on a low setting, making it warmer in the hooch than most kept it. Nguyen, who in a conversation whose subject MacDonald had forgotten, had once told his senior ("Top") enlisted man that he was originally from an area near the Laos border in Vietnam, and as such was more uncomfortable in cold weather than heat.

Nguyen, somewhere in his early fifties, was as physically fit if not more noticeably slight of build than most of his men who averaged an age of 19 years. Sinuous, "Uncle Ho" (as fate would not have allowed him to escape the name from sticking) could ruck full field gear with any of his privates without signs of tiring, and for periods of time that MacDonald had never seen tested to the fullest. It was his quiet and reserved manner that inspired his men, including MacDonald, the most though. Nguyen wore the captain's bars in the company- but he held himself as no more or less a Ranger than anyone else.

"Sir, just wanted to touch bases-.", MacDonald said as Nguyen pored over soft-copy paperwork on a notebook computer on the small desk in the corner of his half of the hooch,

"Mm-hmm?", Nguyen vocalized, prompting MacDonald to continue.

"Personnel just tapped me and told me that the new louie was coming in on the thirteen-hundred slick instead of the sixteen. Would you like me to bring him here to you right away, or sit on him awhile?"

Nguyen turned in his small, folding chair to face the sergeant major, "No, bring him to me so I can look him over."

MacDonald nodded to Nguyen's instructions in clean, though slightly chopped, English, "Yes sir."

"What's his name again?"

MacDonald stood silent for a moment. Names took with him after time, but until he had interacted with a man a few times, they didn't always stick.

" _Wilson?.. Wilber?.._ ", MacDonald sorted the W's in his lexicon, searching, "- Whilite."

Nguyen nodded, "And what did you think from his jacket, Mac?"

MacDonald shrugged, "Good marks from OCS and Ranger school. Third in jump school-. He's green though, Captain. Should work out fine- once he gets some of the starch out. Any word on Lieutenant Hoyt?"

"He had more surgery yesterday.", Nguyen replied, lifting his arms to stretch a kink out of his back, "He came through okay-. He may even regain full movement of the knee, I was told."

"That's good.", MacDonald said, recalling the grotesque break during a training exercise three weeks before that had taken the platoon lieutenant off active duty and was likely to remove the officer from the service altogether, "His chalk was asking."

"Please tell them.", Nguyen said completing his stretch that gave MacDonald a view of his khaki colored T-shirt with the company insignia on it and the motto- _Kill something every day, even if it's small_.

"Yes sir.", MacDonald said, preparing to depart.

"Mac", Nguyen added, "I ask particularly because Colonel Strunk is looking to set up listening posts and LRRP/SOG ops in one of the hot zones to the north. We're likely to get it. Third platoon won't have a lot of time to get to know their new lieutenant. Should I be concerned?"

"No sir.", MacDonald said firmly, "They're Rangers, one and all."

"That's good, Top. Have your NCOs keep him steered in the right direction though, okay?"

"Yes sir.", MacDonald replied.

Second Lieutenant Edward Whilite gripped the hand-holds to the aluminum-framed fold-out seat he was strapped into as the Lakota slick banked and yanked sharply to port. For nearly two hours rain forest had flowed by beneath the transport in rolling swells of green which looked to Whilite after a short time like waves in the open ocean. The flight had been low and fast for most of that time out in The Zone, but only now as the chopper neared Camp Conrad did the pilot add the additional element of anxiety to the flight of rigorous zig-zagging.

"You okay there, Lieutenant?", yelled the starboard door gunner who allowed his boots to swing out the open compartment side to either side of his weapon's mount as the Lakota reversed its maneuver. The door nearest to Whilite filled with a blur of jungle canopy, causing him to hold himself to his seat even tighter as the door gunner swung as calmly from his harness as if he were in his boyhood tire swing..

"You look like me on the can after taco night at the mess hall!"

"I'm trying to keep it in-!", Whilite replied, choosing to focus his attention on the deck directly between his boots. To his surprise, his feet had not yet become imbedded in the floor panels.

"-Not push it out!"

"Think of it like a roller coaster with people shooting at you!", the gunner suggested, "But we fly like this so they _don't_ shoot at us-!"

White-knuckled, Whilite replied, "That's supposed to make me feel _better?_ "

"Hell yeah!", said the gunner, still leisurely swinging from his harness as the Lakota took another steep, banking turn that Whilite thought would bring the treetops into the cabin, "Shows the pilot knows what he's doing! The dittos and banditos know Camp Conrad is there- ya don't dare fly straight in- y'd be a sittin' duck!"

Whilite nodded his understanding, "Yeah, I know. You can tell the pilot he doesn't have to impress me though!"

The gunner shrugged, "It's only a few more kliks! Hey, this is nothing though! About a month back, we were extracting a platoon from a hot LZ up north, and I mean _hot!_ Dittos just fallin' outta the trees all over the extraction point-. Hell, the Air Force boys plas-naped the shit outta the perimeter, a flight of gunships was orbiting for support, and we still lost a bird on the way in!"

Whilite noticed a distant break in the trees ahead as the chopper turned again. He wasn't sure if it was the ride now or the company that he most wanted to have behind him.

"That's rough!"

The gunner shook his head, "That isn't even the fucked-up part! So we pile damn near two squads aboard because we're down a bird- _hell,_ I didn't think we'd even clear the trees leavin' the LZ. Me and Terry on the left are just pumpin' the trees full of holes and getting' it back just as good from the dittos. We get up to around twelve-hundred feet and, _WHOOOSH!_ \- a fuckin' rocket comes right through this door, hits some guy whose sittin' in the floor in the center of the back, and knocks him clear out the other door! Come to think of it, I think he was a second louie too!"

Amused by the scant parallels, the gunner laughed a snorting laugh, " _Better watch your ass out there!"_

"Sounds like the real problems are in _here_.", Whilite pointed out.

"Not here!", the gunner said defensively, "This is the luckiest bird in the Wing!"

"Didn't you just say that some dude got blown out the door by a rocket?"

" _Yeah, welll…_ ", the gunner stammered, looking for justification of his argument, "It didn't blow up though! We were lucky, see? I mean he was pretty well fucked, but hey!.."

Sergeant Major MacDonald stood well short of the concrete helicopter landing pad, one of twelve at the camp's small air field, as the Lakota for which he was waiting vaulted the tree line and seemed to skid in sideways toward a landing.

MacDonald had no phobias of the rugged Lakota utility choppers, or of flying in general- but had been in The Zone long enough to know that things could go very wrong, very quickly, and just when all seemed to be clear. He'd seen choppers on approach taken down by heat seekers, and even anti-tank rockets fired by one unseen enemy or another from outside the camp perimeter. At so low an altitude, the pilots he'd seen fall victim to the tactic had seldom been able to maneuver evasively, and when hit had no time to recover before their aircraft crashed into the deck. In those cases, spinning rotor blades meeting the ground added up to flying shards of poly-carbon fiber and had made a messy end to many unfortunate enough to be in the area.

The Lakota slick that MacDonald watched slid on a cushion of air over the center of the landing pad, a testament to the pilot's skill and familiarity with his machine, before sinking the last two meters to earth.

The shocks to the Lakota's wheel struts had not yet fully accepted the weight of the aircraft when the single passenger who was at a glance not a member of the crew, leapt down to the concrete with rifle in one hand and a tightly stuffed duffle bag by the handle in the other. MacDonald studied the officer for a moment. Not as tall as MacDonald, and nowhere near as solid of frame, the lieutenant still gave the impression of lean muscularity in the way he easily hefted his gear and trotted, bent at the waist, through the wash of the rotors away from the Lakota.

MacDonald stooped as well and jogged out to meet the company's new officer.

"Lieutenant Whilite?", MacDonald yelled and saluted as the chopper's engines whined and the aircraft seemed to spring free of the earth.

"Yes.", replied Whilite, returning the salute.

"I'm Sergeant Major MacDonald, sir.", MacDonald said, "Captain Nguyen sent me out to meet you- get you settled in and such."

"Great.", Whilite said, straightening his back to stand fully upright with MacDonald as the Lakota cleared the airfield completely and vanished back out over the jungle again, "Say, Sergeant Major, have you ever hitched a ride with those guys before?"

"No.", MacDonald said as he motioned Whilite toward the heart of Camp Conrad, "Can't say I have, sir."

"Then I want you around me in the field, Sergeant Major- you're a lucky man."

MacDonald relaxed to allow his deep, chesty laugh. Concerns he had about the new officer were already fading.

"That bad, eh?"

"Well, it wasn't the most terrifying experience of my life.", Whilite said as he adjusted his boonie cap to best shield him from the sun, "But I could see a flight with them as being a good motivator to get off the bird and fight."

"Well, the chopper pilots around here are just a touch on the crazy side.", MacDonald explained, "They have to be though. You can count on `em though, Lieutenant. When the shit hits the fan, they'll get in and get you home. So, we cut `em some slack."

"Amen to that.", Whilite said.

MacDonald led the lieutenant along a plank walkway until it intersected Broadway, where he turned them right.

"The CO wants to see you ASAP.", MacDonald continued, "But we'll swing by the arsenal so you can check your weapon in-. Speaking of weapons, what are you carrying as a sidearm?"

"Sig .40.", Whilite replied, involuntarily touching the holster at his hip, "Why?"

"Just checking, sir. We don't really have a lot of problems around here with the perimeter- heck, we haven't had a breech since the microwave fences went up- but everyone still carries their sidearm. Better safe, you know."

"Right, I figured as much.", Whilite said.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were carrying something with punch. These dit-.", MacDonald began, and catching himself as being too relaxed too soon, corrected himself, "These Zentraedi out here- them's some hardcore boys- and _gals_ too. The males especially- if you're not packing something with power behind it, you're likely to just piss `em off. Nine mil, forget about it. I saw one take six in the chest and he would have kept comin' if the seventh hadn't been between the eyes."

"No shit?", Whilite asked, stifling his concern and amazement somewhat, "Well, you figure that the micronized ones are still over two meters on average. That's the micronized ones."

MacDonald shrugged, "Those are about the only kind we see, Lieutenant. Hell, once in a while you'll come across one that refused to submit to micronization- but they're usually in pretty rough shape. I figure it's hard enough to forage on a world you don't know- it's gotta be worse if your sixteen meters tall."

"Just not something that they ever were trained to do, or so I'm told.", Whilite said in speculation, "But what about the micronized ones?"

"What's there to say?", MacDonald said, "Most of `em, the ones we have to worry about anyway, either went in or were rounded up for micronization. They got shrunk, got a set of clothes and a meal, and sometime during the _Welcome to Earth_ feature film they decided it wasn't for them and they got up and left. A lot of them stayed around the villages and towns, forming up in groups and raiding the locals for supplies. Those, the Southern Cross mainly deals with them. We're more concerned with the ones who retreated deeper into the bush. You've got your _return to the stars_ types. They're the most dangerous because they are motivated and dedicated. A lot of people don't give the Zentraedi much credit- they say that they don't adapt well, I'll tell you though, Lieutenant, they adapt a lot better than those people think. They've picked up on jungle survival pretty well, movement, concealment- and they're learning to think on small unit levels. Roll all that up with centuries of breeding for war, and you can be in for a wild ride."

As the two reached the arsenal, Whilite nodded to show comprehension, "Thanks for the skinny, Sergeant Major. I'll keep that in mind."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant. That's why I'm here and why I make the huge bucks.", MacDonald said, "And you can call me _Top_ or even _Big Mac_ , if you want and if the brass isn't around- there's no getting around it, everyone else does."

"Will do, Top.", Whilite said, and then hesitantly added, "Hey, Top-. Look, gold bar aside, I'm more of a wash-and-wear than a starch and polish type. I've done the school bit to be called a Ranger, but I don't know this place. Ranger to Ranger, can I ask you to quietly tap me on my shoulder from time to time if I'm doing something stupid?"

MacDonald gave his chesty laugh again, "That's the other reason I get the big bucks, Lieutenant. Go on, check your weapon. We'll drop your gear off at your hut and get you over to the Captain."

 **Brasilia**

Lilith stood at the only window of the small efficiency apartment keeping most of her weight off of her left leg that was bound expertly at the thigh with a gauze bandage to protect her freshly treated wound. Cain had skillfully extracted two shotgun pellets and three times as many sizable wooden splinters from her leg- not allowing quite enough time for the local anesthetic to take effect. Lilith surmised that this was _mostly_ inadvertent, but had sensed Cain's frustration with the debacle that had come from much planning as he treated her.

The other ICA agent had departed some twenty minutes before for additional food and medical supplies, if they could be found discretely, leaving Lilith to herself in the spartan accommodations. Had Yeshta been terminated as planned, Lilith would have been well on her way out of Brasilia by now- hopefully out of Brazil altogether and possibly even headed home for a short while. Things had scarcely gone according to plan though, and both she and the large gym bag containing her personal possessions from the flat that had been provided to her by the ICA were going nowhere in the near future.

Movement at this juncture was too risky. Though the resident Zentraedi population of Brasilia was by no means plugged into the civil government and underworld structures of the city the way the ICA was- it was foolish to underestimate their ability to gather information and act upon it. Yeshta was not a thug as Dornian had been, his rising cadre of followers more sophisticated and disciplined to thought before rash action. Lilith knew this, and knew equally well that the search for her had begun quietly the moment it was known that her remains were not among those extracted from the smoldering shell of the café.

Not every murder in Brasilia was random, and Lilith had no intention of being one of them.

The view of the Federal District from the small apartment's window was hardly noteworthy. The building that had housed the café was not even visible from where Lilith stood, but she knew relatively where it was and found herself looking in that direction. Not even a wisp of smoke could be seen against the clear blue sky. Traffic and pedestrians moved visibly through the city's veins of transportation. For all intents and purposes, the day's events had never happened.

Brasilia had a short memory for acts of insignificant violence.

Lilith hobbled to the sofa-bed that had been restored to its seat configuration following Lilith's surgical procedure earlier. Each step gave her a shot of throbbing pain to the thigh- a throb that was just beginning to gain an edge with the ebb of the painkiller. Lilith would medicate later. For the moment she wanted her mind sharp, and a little pain would help with that.

On the small end table that Lilith had moved from the side of the sofa-bed to just in front of it, a notebook computer hummed softly and awaited use. Lilith tapped her password into the system and quickly navigated to the function she required. Via a compact, powerful satellite antenna, also set out on the end table, the computer established a video-conference link with an office thousands of kilometers away. Interception of the transmission was possible, but unlikely. Cracking of the high-level encryption by which the transmission was sent and received was highly improbable. Lilith used a remote control on the arm of the sofa to turn on one of the apartment's sole luxuries, a small stereo whose volume was just high enough to thwart ears that may have been prying just outside the door.

Lilith knew she could speak freely.

The lean, dark features of a black man of middle age appeared within the window on Lilith's screen opened by the application. Cleanly shaved, both face and head, the digital image of the handler was clean but had a surreal quality in the slight jumpiness of the transmission.

"Mr. Lilith.", the handler said, acknowledging his agent, "What happened today?"

"You mean what _didn't_ happen today, right, Blake?", Lilith replied, "There's no point in beating around the bush, so let's get to it. The primary target was _not_ neutralized. David _didn't_ put in a full eight hours at the shop and overall, the operation _wasn't_ a complete success."

Blake, the handler, shook his head darkly musing, "You have a gift for understatement. This is the third fuck-up in attempting to neutralize this target, Lilith. I'm starting to have difficulty in justifying my faith in you to the Actions Director."

" _Two_ fuck-ups, Blake-.", Lilith replied evenly, "I made the call on that first because there were too many valuable assets in the room. We would have lost too many information sources."

"Still-.", Blake said unsympathetically, "The bomb you said had a zero chance of missing the target- _missed_. We then went through the considerable difficulty of rendering a customized virus, which… What did happen with that?"

"The virus was created against a sample- an eyelash- that we strongly believed to be that of the target.", Lilith explained, "It turned out to be from one of his lieutenants. The virus worked great. It just neutralized the wrong target."

"And then you neutralized the top floor of a building in the Federal District of the most highly contested city in The Control Zone.", Blake pointed out.

"A _corner_ of the top floor.", Lilith corrected.

"It might as well have been the whole building.", Blake said, unimpressed with Lilith's correction for accuracy, "Do you watch the news or read the papers?"

"Not while I'm having buckshot plucked out of my leg, no."

"Fortunately we were able to spin the story through our contacts as it was developing. Factional violence is the official word. Guess what though, Lilith?"

"What?"

"With the exception of the fact that we operate more freely when we don't draw attention to our operations, it doesn't matter what the human population believes. But at the same time, the _Zentraedi_ population doesn't watch the news or red the paper. They're beyond our ability to spin a story to- and it does matter what _they_ think. Right now the players who are important think at the least that there is a human conspiracy to kill the target. If they have any suspicion of _factional violence_ , that will quickly be dispelled and within the Zentraedi population, the guard is going to go up. You were right there in the same room with him, Lilith. You couldn't have put a bullet in his head?"

As a handler, Blake was normally very understanding of the problems that could arise in field operations. Now though, he was simply irritating Lilith. He was undoubtedly under great pressure as well from the Action Director- but his daily world was also an office.

"And you _weren't_ in that room, Blake. I could go into great detail- and I will in my written report- but the short version is that the situation deteriorated too quickly. Several high value peripheral targets were neutralized- that's worth something."

"Dornian, yes.", Blake agreed, "In the short term, it will be helpful to not have him stirring up his followers. Unfortunately, his lieutenants who escaped, and those who were not present were also those who most strongly advocated alliance with Yeshta. If they can quell the more hot-headed players left in their group, they may actually gain Yeshta what he's been after- consolidation."

Lilith said in resignation, "Well, I'm afraid that there's not much that I'm going to be able to do about it. You're right, Blake, the guard is going to go up all through the Zentraedi population- especially around Yeshta. Even if I wasn't marked now, which I am, I wouldn't be able to get within a hundred meters of him. For this job, I'm done as an operator- I'm no longer viable. I can bring the replacement agent up to speed on the job and the details, but-."

"Lilith, there is no other agent.", Blake informed her.

The words, in their solidity, struck Lilith heavily.

"No other agent?", she repeated, "If you want me killed, Blake, just ask me to fall on my own sword- there's no need to jeopardize what's left of an already potentially compromised operation."

"You know it's not that, Lilith.", Blake replied. He did value the lives and safety of his agents, almost at the same level as operational success- Lilith knew this. This made Blake one of the better handlers in the Agency.

"There are a lot of operations standing up, and agents are at a premium. Getting you situated with another op would be easy. Getting another agent familiarized with your op to your level of proficiency would not. Thems the breaks."

"Cain?", Lilith asked.

"You'll have him for a short while- I can't say for certain how long. Operational necessity.", Blake explained, "You're resourceful, Lilith. You're quick on your feet. You'll think of something."

Lilith nodded her agreement, "I already have. I'm going to need a shooter."

"You're weapons qualified.", Blake pointed out.

"Not for the kind of job that this is going to be. I'm going to need an expert- not just someone _qualified_. Can you help me that much?"

Blake's tone was non-committal, "I'll see what I can do. Submit an action plan for review and we'll see what we can come up with."

"You do that."

 **Camp Conrad, The Amazon Basin**

Captain Nguyen lowered Whilite's thin personnel jacket to study him over the rectangular wire rims of his reading glasses.

"Impressive.", the company CO said simply as he flipped through the final few pages bound to the inside of the folder, "High marks in all areas… I see that you got your commission through the Green to Gold program. Being a grunt wasn't good enough for you, Lieutenant Whilite?"

Whilite, sitting erect in his chair though the captain had given him permission to be at ease upon his arrival, replied quickly, "It wasn't like that, sir."

"Then what was it like?"

"I figured _enough_ was when I couldn't do any more. Rangers lead the way, and I wanted to see if I had what it took to lead."

"So you took the officer quick course. Are you a leader, Lieutenant?"

"Yes sir."

"And why should I put the lives of twelve of my Rangers into your hands?", Nguyen asked, increasing the pressure on the young officer with simple inflections of his voice, "You're greener than the jungle around you, you haven't ever shot at anything that's shot back. Why, Lieutenant Whilite? Why do I put my people's lives in your hands?"

Whilite could feel the tingle of sweat forming on his scalp. They would come to his forehead next, and he wanted an answer before that happened.

"Because whatever happens sir, whatever decisions I make, and whatever orders I give to your Rangers- I'm gonna be right there with them.", Whilite said solidly.

Nguyen and MacDonald exchanged a glance that said nothing to Whilite but spoke volumes between them.

Captain Nguyen closed Whilite's jacket and set the folder down on his desk,

" _Our_ Rangers, Lieutenant. Welcome to Echo Company."

The captain extended his hand to the lieutenant to shake.

"Thank you sir.", Whilite said as he pumped the CO's hand twice firmly and released it.

Nguyen rose from his chair, taking another folder into his hand as he rose and handing it to Whilite.

The lieutenant opened the folder to find an operation cover sheet with a map beneath and supporting materials behind that.

"You'll be getting a start by hopping in with both feet.", Nguyen said to Whilite, "Colonel Struk is having us take a ten day LRRP/SOG op. The area is about sixty kliks to the north along and around the Piranha River. Intelligence says that there has been an increase in Zentraedi malcontent movement in and through that area. We will monitor movements, gauge the size, and try to determine the cause. What do you think of that, Lieutenant?"

Whilite studied the map carefully as though he would have to navigate from memory, saying, "Sounds simple enough- which of course means that there's a catch. And I can't say I'm thrilled with the river's name being, _Piranha_."

MacDonald laughed, "Hell, Lieutenant, half the rivers in Brazil are named Piranha. If the shoe fits, I guess."

"Did you know that _Piranha_ , in one of the local tribal languages, means _donkey castrator_?", Nguyen asked.

Whilite shook his head, "No, but I'll think twice about swimming."

"Ominous names aside.", Nguyen continued, "You were right, Lieutenant Whilite, there are a couple of catches to a seemingly simple operation. First, the jungle is very dense in this sector. If you were planning this operation, how would you go about inserting your forces?"

Whilite's quick study of the small map presented several options, but when he spoke he had a definite idea, "Well, moving up or down river by boat would be a lot easier on everyone, especially with the added gear for listening posts- but an educated guess would be that the Zentraedi are following the river like a path. We'd be seen long before we ever got into the operational area and that would defeat the whole point. I'd suggest chopper insertion by zip line here- to the northwest by about ten kliks. That will give us a chance to maneuver- lose anyone who might have seen us come in, and still get to the operational area fairly quickly. Question, if I may, sir-?"

"Have it.", Nguyen allowed.

"Not being familiar with the area, of course- isn't the Southern Cross pretty active through this region? I'd think they'd be all over anything larger than a huddle going on in this neck of the woods."

"Ah!", Nguyen said, nodding his approval which also brought a grin from MacDonald which Whilite did not see, "And so you've stumbled onto the second catch, or more accurately, the second primary objective of the operation. We're also to monitor ASC activities in the area. The Army of the Southern Cross in The Control Zone is adept at suppressing Zentraedi uprisings- but whether the cost is worth the service is a question yet to be answered."

Whilite said honestly, handing the folder back to Nguyen, "I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir. I know there's friction between the RDF and the ASC, and that the ASC has gotten the reputation of being pretty harsh on the Zentraedi- but I thought that overall we were working toward the same goal."

"On paper.", Nguyen replied.

"Out here though- and especially out _there_ ", MacDonald added, "things on paper don't mean a whole lot, Lieutenant. It really is the wilderness again, and people can and have gotten away with many things. Some things are worse than others."

"So we watch and report.", Nguyen, continued, picking up where his ranking NCO left off, "Top is right though, Lieutenant Whilite. I'll give you this one piece of advice, Lieutenant, and ask you not to lose it. Zentraedi, they're fairly easy to predict when you run into them in the field. Their reaction to situations are textbook, once you've learned to read the right book. ASC you have to be more careful of- their command structure is looser than ours, so out in The Zone it's almost an armed affiliation rather than a proper army. A lot has to do with the person in command, their personal agenda, and what they're willing to do to achieve it. You'll remember that, won't you?"

"I will sir.", Whilite assured Nguyen.

"Good.", Nguyen said, "That's all then, Lieutenant. Get settled, meet your platoon and get a feel for them. You shouldn't have a problem with them, they're all capable."

"Yes sir.", Whilite said, rising to leave, "Rangers lead the way, sir."

"All the way.", Nguyen replied, "Top will check on you later to see how you're faring."

"Thanks, sir.", Whilite said, exiting the hooch.

Nguyen waited for MacDonald's reply which came in the form of a simple nod. Nguyen nodded as well, sealing the agreement.

The new officer had potential and was worth keeping.

 **Egerton, England**

A dining room table capable of seating three times as many comfortably was set for four in the Johnson home.

Bone china, silver flatware, and crystal water goblets and wine glasses were placed precisely in settings around the head of the table. Dinner rarely involved the fine service, and more often than not was taken in the dining nook just off the kitchen- but tonight had been deemed special as four would be dining instead of only three.

Dexter Johnson, looking more in his mid-fifties than early sixties thanks to years of not shying from the labor aspects of his profession, sat squarely at the head of the table like a regent. In place of a scepter, a cane was hung over the back of his chair, an accommodation required not so much for the act of moving, but for allowing Johnson to continue to move at the speed to which he was accustomed.

Loretta Johnson sat to her husband's right, her dress like her husband's sweater was muted in color giving the dinner just an air of formality without crossing the line that kept a family feel to the meal. She, with her husband, bracketed in Howard who had changed from his uniform to a more comfortable selection of a sweater and trousers. Andy, sitting to his father's left was grateful that the uniform had disappeared and also that his parents' attention was focused on catching up with their eldest living son's doings, as it had allowed the fact that his soup and salad courses had been cleared mostly untouched to go unnoticed.

The painful dilemma remaining was that the unpleasant news had yet to be broken, and time was increasingly fleet of foot.

"-Well it isn't a question about some military secret, I just asked the boy if he was going to be able to get leave for the holidays!", Dexter Johnson said, tapping the rim of his bread plate with his knife as he spoke.

"And if he knew, he would have said so, dear.", Loretta said, patting the back of her son, Howard's hand.

"Look", Dexter said, laying his knife down upon realizing that his hand had been acting outside of his conscious control, "I just don't feel that a father should have to interrogate his own son to find out about something as simple as the holidays."

Howard cut in shrewdly before the debate could escalate between the two parties with whom the issue had nothing to do, "Da, I just don't know yet. The regiment is being deployed to Ukraine sometime in November to participate in exercises. The exercises could easily run into December. I'm not saying I _won't_ be home, I'm saying that I don't know yet. I put in the request, but the CO hasn't signed off on any leave around the time of the exercise yet. Plans need to gel a little."

Johnson shook his head, "Bloody military. It makes me feel safe at night knowing we're defended by people who can't make a simple decision."

"Well, it's not really that simple, Da-."

Johnson continued on his tirade. The family knew him to be best placated by allowing him to vent. It was a harmless display.

"And consider that Ukraine is some of the little viable farmland left on the planet! Do we really need to be playing war games where we grow our food?"

"I don't think they grow crops under two feet of snow, Da."

"Hardly the point!", Johnson proclaimed, "If you were to take the same resources it took to move your one regiment from here to Ukraine and put it into moving building materials into the right areas we could have five thousand families under proper shelter by this time next month."

Loretta Johnson shook her head and could have as easily recited the words that would come next from her husband, "You're on it again."

"And shouldn't I be?", Dexter continued, becoming more animated with the exhilaration of his favorite argument, "Two and a half weeks its been now that I've had block and timber sitting under lock and key outside of Manchester and do you want to know why there isn't a single dwelling gone up yet?"

"Same reason as why you went on a rant last night I would guess, dear.", Loretta said.

Dexter Johnson thundered on as though no one had spoken, "Nails. Can you believe I can't get nails? Not a nail, not a screw-."

"You sound like some of my chaps complaining.", Howard said, hoping to derail the conversation.

"Howard!", Loretta exclaimed, genuinely taken aback.

Dexter Johnson had his momentum built now and there was no stopping him, "Bloody Christ, we build star ships that will travel halfway across the galaxy in the blink of an eye but the Government won't commit to fabricating carpentry nails!"

"I've enlisted in the Defense Forces."

Conversation dropped to nothing and the heat of debate chilled instantly to a frosty sting as attention shifted to Andy sitting at his father's left.

" _You did not._ ", Dexter Johnson said gravely, his voice equal parts astonishment and threat.

"I did.", Andy said, working hard to keep the tremble from his voice, "The same day as Cedric."

Sitting across the table, Loretta Johnson held a bunched linen napkin to her mouth with an expression of horror that would have been no greater had her youngest clawed out his own eyes at the table.

Howard, having recoiled not so much from the message but its delivery tried to insert himself.

"Da, Mum, there's all kinds of specialties in the Service. Andy could end up with the engineers just as easily as-."

Dexter turned on his eldest with a ferocity normally reserved for trapped and wounded animals, " _Did you have something to do with this?_!"

"No, I didn't know until this morning.", Howard said calmly.

The blaze of Dexter's gaze swept back to Andy, "And you'd just sign your life away like you could have done nothing more?"

"I can do more, and I will.", Andy said, feeling the fight build in him, "But I'm doing this first. Four years, and I'll move on- but I'm doing this first."

A stoic resignation came over Dexter Johnson's face as he rose from his seat. The man's limbs shook slightly with a palsy rooted equally in anger and grief and which suddenly made him look older than his years. By the time he had reached an erect posture, a rigid and exaggerated erect posture, his face had gone ashen.

"I recall the same argument from Dexter."

Without another word, the old man snatched up his cane from the back of his chair and gathering himself vanished into the darkened parlor. The heavy step and click of the cane on the hardwood floor retreated and softened through the house and was given final punctuation with the slamming of the office door.

Loretta Johnson set her napkin down on the table looking no less aged than her husband. She rose more steadily but with a more powerful aura of heartbreak around her.

"There's no greater joy or emotional burden than having children with strong wills of their own.", she said, walking without making eye contact in the direction of the butler's pantry and toward the kitchen, "God willing, you will both know that one day."

Howard waited until he heard the creak of the steps in the service stairs marking his mother's ascent to the second floor and to the master bedroom before he spoke.

"Well, you handled that deftly."

"Sod off.", Andy replied, collapsing into his chair, "I didn't hear you suggest a better way."

"There wasn't one- but that truly went over like a loud fart in church.", Howard said reaching across the table to where the bottle of wine had been set. He filled his glass and then Andy's before setting the bottle down again and calling toward the kitchen, "Lucy, you can bring that ham now."

Andy found that with some effort his legs would respond to him, and he tried to get up. Howard motioned for him to be seated again, and Andy terminated the attempt before fully committing to it.

"You're not going to eat?", Howard asked.

"Somehow I've lost my appetite.", Andy said somberly.

"Better learn to eat anyway.", Howard advised, "Tonight is the last night of the world as you know it, brother. Tomorrow what you want or what you feel isn't going to matter too much. –And believe me, you're going to wish you had eaten one last good meal."

Andy's voice was distant and contemplative, "I've buggered things up right good, haven't I?"

"Yeah, you have.", Howard said, picking up his wine, "Sometimes things are bound to be buggered anyway. Sometimes the best you can do is have them buggered up to your advantage. Would you have been happier just going off to university like the plan said?"

"No-. Maybe. _Fuck, I don't know._ "

Howard shrugged, "Hardly important now. You're up to your neck in it."

Lucy, a woman who was as round as she was tall entered the dining room through the same passage Loretta Johnson had used to depart. She carried a covered serving platter that seeped the spiced aroma of baked ham as she set it on the table between the two young men.

She didn't say a word as she removed the polished stainless steel lid, but a sideways glance at Andy was accusatory and cut every bit as much as anything that either of his parents had said.

"Just leave the rest.", Howard instructed, "Andy and I will just make sandwiches, and we'll clean up later. We're likely to be up late anyway."

Lucy nodded as she vanished into the kitchen that smelled of a meal that would not be served.

Howard used the meat knife on the serving platter to shave off several slices of ham that he split between his plate and Andy's.

"Any encouraging words?", Andy asked as his brother tossed a dinner roll from the covered serving basket onto his brother's plate.

"Well, you've got job security for the next four years.", Howard said as he stuffed a roll with ham, "And you're free of the burden of choosing what you should wear everyday."

"Swell."

"Eat.", Howard told him, "You'll be on a bus in twelve hours- you can be sullen then."

 **Edwards Air Force Base, California**

All sixteen recliner chairs in the 623rd Knight Hawk Squadron briefing room were occupied with the unit's pilots- divided by flight and section. A fine haze of cigarette smoke swirled in the eddies created by the whirling ceiling fans and conversations back and forth merged into a collective murmur of indistinguishable voices.

Major Wang entered through the side door, carrying his briefing materials in a small, neat stack beneath his arm as he always did. His entrance got a rise from the squadron , who as a single voice greeted the flight operations officer as though he was arriving at a social function.

" _Wang!..Wang!..Wang!..Wang!_ "

As a celebrity might wave off the cheers of fans in modesty, so did Wang as he reached the briefing podium.

"Good afternoon, Knight Hawks- please, don't get up."

"We won't!", called a voice from the back of the room.

Wang inserted a memory stick into the computer port behind his stand and the screen at the front of the room displayed the relevant map for the briefing.

"This will be the preliminary briefing for the _very_ desirable duty you've drawn, thanks I understand to the charm and personality of Jack-."

Winters' wheel cap raised in acknowledgement and whoops and hollers came from his squadron.

Wang continued, unaffected, "Simple deal, Knight Hawks- even you can handle it-. You will be escorting four CTP-1 refitted Transport Pods carrying food, medicine, power generation and water purification equipment, dirty magazines and rubbers from their layover point at Rosamond Lake to their destination, the ASC supply depot and distribution hub, here, at Salvador Del Norte, Brazil. The flight plan is this- wheels up at zero-six-hundred tomorrow. Knight Hawk Squadron will rally with the CTPs, callsign _Chuck Wagon_ , at Waypoint Alpha- fifteen kliks east of Rogers Lake. You will proceed then along a course of one-one-zero at an altitude of sixty-five thousand to Waypoint Bravo. C2 between wheels-up and Waypoint Bravo is one of our AWACS birds, callsign _Christopher_. From Waypoint Bravo, you will turn right to one-eight-zero and proceed due south to Waypoint Charlie at the Venezuelan coast. C2 for Bravo to Charlie is by the patrolling AWACS over the Gulf of Mexico, callsign _Sea Breeze_. Waypoint Delta is Salvador, Knight Hawks, but RDF cedes governance of airspace from the coastline through The Control Zone to the ASC, so we have no routing authority beyond Waypoint Charlie, and subsequently no firm flight plan. ASC will assume C2 responsibilities at the Venezuelan coast with ground-based control, callsign _Safari_. Now, ASC is anxious to get the goodies, so likely as not they will route you directly in- but there's no telling for certain. We do know that the ASC is likely to assign their own _escort_ to see that you don't lose your way. Be advised, Knight Hawks, ASC pilots have a tendency to want to strut their stuff in our faces, a sort of macho thing- it must be the climate. Carrier based Valkyrie pilots on station in the Gulf and the Pacific have filed numerous reports of ASC pilots challenging them , sometimes aggressively, in ASC controlled airspace. This comes down from Major General Butler himself, so listen up, you'll be carrying full weapons loads for medium-range intercept, but you are not to engage with ASC forces in any way that may be deemed provocative. Rules of engagement are as follows-. Up to Waypoint Charlie, you will reroute around any detected threats. If an unanticipated threat should engage you, you may return fire if fired upon- but only to the point of securing the safe escape of Chuck Wagon. Beyond Waypoint Charlie, all detected threats will be dealt with at the discretion of the ASC. Let the Southern Cross boys deal with their neighborhood. In ASC airspace, you are only to engage if directly engaged by a threat. Intel suggests this to be highly unlikely as hostile Zentraedi air activity has been nil in The Control Zone for roughly four months, and surface-to-air capabilities seem to be limited to shoulder-fired missile weapons that are few and far between."

Wang shifted to his written notes, "Unloading of the CTPs should take no more than a day- depending. The CTP flight commander will see to the official transfer of cargo to ASC control. At this point, Knight Hawks, you're lingering to support. ASC flight ops for the region will issue you a flight plan to escort Chuck Wagon flight to the RDF base at Rio de Janeiro where you will have a two day layover and liberty before receiving orders and a flight plan to return to Edwards on or about the twenty-first. Any questions on the basic details?"

A hand raised in the squadron's B Flight, "Intel assessment of Rio de Janeiro, sir?"

Wang raised an eyebrow, "Recon and intel suggest good local food, great tropical drinks with little paper umbrellas, and absolutely awesome hineys on outstanding nnude beaches. The intel shop and flight ops requests as much photographic documentation of these target areas as Knight Hawk Squadron can provide. I'm sure you'll come through, Gecko."

"Yes, sir- three bags full.", replied Capt. Horne.

"Back to work.", Wang said, returning the briefing to official business, "The Southern Cross has come up with some rather odd aircraft and mecha. A visual recognition refresher is in order, I think-."

A collective groan rose from the pilots.

"None of you want to shoot down a friendly, do you?", Wang asked justifying the exercise.

"I do.", Winters said glibly.

"Okay, no one _besides_ Jack wants to.", Wang continued, "Let's talk interceptors."

Lyle sat in one of the worn, deep-cushioned chairs in the multi-functional room just outside of the briefing room. Being an NCO and not a pilot to boot, his presence in the briefing room was neither required nor appropriate according to protocol- not that Knight Hawk Squadron was renown for adherence to protocol. The aircraft captain was in a rare period of inactivity though, his fighters having checked out across the board to RDF operational, and Lyle's own higher standards. A single Valkyrie in A Flight would be serviced later to have the lubricating oil of its engine turbines changed, but the preparations for that hardly required Lyle's direct supervision. The details of what had brought the entire squadron together for a hastily scheduled briefing was far more interesting.

Lyle was not privileged to what exactly was being said, but muffled by the doorway he could make out Major Wang's voice, and then alternately the voices of pilots- some of whom Lyle could identify and some he could not. In any case, the aircraft captain was satisfied to sit in the air conditioning with boots on the magazine-strewn coffee table, thumbing through a recent issue of _Popular Mechanics_ the way a teenage boy would pore over _Playboy_.

The door to the briefing room opened and pilots spilled out like students leaving the last class of a school day. Lyle rolled the magazine up and tucked it into the deep cargo pocket of his work coveralls as he got up. Going against the stream of pilots, it was only a moment before he found Winters who was speaking with Lt. Col. Dalton as he emerged from the briefing.

Winters noticed the mechanic immediately and acknowledged him, "Lyle, haven't you a nut somewhere to be tightening or something?"

"Ah told you ta keep yer mind off'a mah nuts.", Lyle replied, "What's the hub-bub?"

Winters fished a pack of cigarettes, giving one to the mechanic and Dalton before lighting one for himself as they moved through the front door into the glaring afternoon sun.

"Well, how do you feel about Rio?"

Lyle shrugged, "Nice gal- better'n you deserve anyway."

Winters paused in the process of putting on his sunglasses, "Not _Rio_ , you twit, _Rio de Janeiro_."

"Never been.", Lyle replied, ignoring the "twit" remark, as he lit his cigarette.

"Want to go?", Dalton asked.

"Fer what?", Lyle asked.

"Squadron support, of course.", Winters explained, "Two days of it, we'll have to rough it on the beach, but requirements of the service and all that-."

"Sounds good.", agreed Lyle, "I'll pack my swimsuit."

Winters visualized for a moment, "If you wear a banana hammock, I'll shoot you myself."

Lyle shook his head, "Naw, no one deserves that cruelty."

"Draw some parts from storage and some of your chaps who can also service a CTP-1- enough to justify a VC-33.", Winters instructed.

"Ya sayin' y're gonna bust up one'a mah babies on this trip?", Lyle asked like an overprotective father.

"No, but things break sometimes.", Winters said, "And sometimes you need extra room for souvenirs."

"Like?"

"Don't know.", Winters said, "We'll see what the local RDF grease monkeys will give us for some of the _extras_ we bring. Anyway, I have to bring something back for Roxanna or she'll never let me set foot in the Club again."

"And we couldn't have that-.", Dalton said.

"Jack!"

Winters instantly recognized the West African accent and scanned the tarmac quickly to find Mumuni, the Vigilante Squadron CO, approaching wearing her full flight suit and gear.

"We'll leave you to this.", Dalton said to his friend, guiding Lyle away by the shoulder.

"Colonel, ma'am.", Winters said, going through the motion of saluting with swagger stick still in hand.

"Well at least you have the motion right.", Mumuni said, returning the salute, "It uses the same muscles as drinking, so you're a pro."

"Well the liver is evil and must be punished.", Winters replied, "Can I help you, ma'am?"

"No, not really. I just wanted to thank you for taking the burden of the escort mission off my shoulders. I prefer to fly around the Outland looking at the same craters day in and day out.", Mumuni said dryly.

"Then it's win-win for everyone I see.", Winters countered, "Fag?"

Mumuni accepted the peace offering of a cigarette, "You're up for this then?"

"For what?", Winters asked, "Look, the call was Butler's- I didn't ask, and he was vehement that I couldn't decline-."

Mumuni blew smoke at Winters, "Relax, I don't hate you any more for this than I normally do-."

"I'm relieved."

"-But it's a different world down there. You're certain you're ready to leap into it after yesterday?"

Winters cocked his wheel cap back by the bill with the pommel of his swagger stick, "Hell, I don't know, Ganyet…. I don't think it's any less of a toilet than the fringes of The Outlands- but maybe I just need a little time in a different toilet."

Mumuni reached the filter on her cigarette with a last drag and tossed it to the pavement to grind it out with the toe of her boot, "Okay. Just watch yourself. The Zentraedi are dangerous down there- but not so much as the humans. Some more than others."

"I'll call if we need help.", Winters said after her as Mumuni began to walk back in the direction from which she had come.

"Wouldn't be the first time I saved your ass."

"Name one!"

"Take a swim for me."

" _Hey_ , name one!"

 **A.R.M.D. II Space Station, "Archer 42"**

The Operational Control Center of an A.R.M.D. II space station was similar to the station itself in that it was designed to serve one primary function: the identification and acquisition of hostile warship threats, and the launch of the station's Mk-4C Pegasus missiles to destroy them. Other requirements had been added later, and subsequently both the station and the OCC had become more crowded with systems and equipment. The net result was a command center staffed by twenty at any given time that barely had space for twelve.

An additional body was added as the door to the compartment opened to admit Lieutenant Commander Queffle who strode immediately the short distance to the central tactical display. The display itself was a three dimensional hologram suspended above a projection table the size of a mess table, with workstations arranged around the circumference.

The duty officer, seeing the CO's arrival made room at the display's side for him.

"What do we have, Pinamachu?", Queffle asked, easily identifying a segmented orange track in the display that indicated the movement of an unidentified contact.

"Sierra Alpha Two-Two-Five, sir.", the first lieutenant reported, "Archer 47 handed the track off to us six minutes ago as they were moving out of prime tracking position."

"Heading and speed?"

"One-eight-seven mark seven-two. Speed is just a touch over forty-thousand Kmph."

"Too fast to be an asteroid?", Queffle asked.

"Too fast to be dismissed immediately as an asteroid, sir.", Pinamachu replied, "So, we gave it a sweep or two with the passive arrays to see what they'd tell us."

"And?"

"it's emitting minute, but distinguishable bio-ethereal and power output. It's a craft of some kind."

"Zentraedi?", Queffle asked.

"Not sure, sir.", the lieutenant said, "The output isn't strong enough for a reliable IFF make- but the size is consistent with a Re-Entry Transport Pod."

Queffle studied the track that grew by a segment every few seconds, "Where the hell did he come from? Transport Pods wouldn't have the life support capabilities for interplanetary travel- and we sure as hell haven't had a cruiser inside of Mars orbit in over a year."

"It could be a derelict, Commander.", Pinamachu speculated, "Damaged out in space- a fuel cell or two left intact in a partially functional reactor. The crew could be dead and the pod just happens to have drifted this way. It's not unheard of."

"Maybe.", Queffle said, "We'd better be sure though. Who do we have up on patrol?"

"The Blue Banshees, Commander.", Pinamachu replied, pointing to a small cluster of icons in the three dimensional display that indicated friendly aircraft, "Lieutenant Kroft's section. They're up working the kinks out of their refitted Alphas. They have a scheduled live fire exercise built into the CAP, so they're carrying medium range weapons."

"Raven and her flock.", Queffle said, pleased with the whim of Chance, "Can they intercept?"

Pinamachu was silent and thoughtful for a moment as he used the tactical display's tools to make distance calculations, "If we vector them in now- _maybe_. That boogey is really moving, sir."

"Do it.", Queffle instructed, "Tell Raven to make challenge and advise us. Have the N2 check the watch board and alert postings again, let's make sure we don't have something of ours possibly floating around out there. If we don't, and if Raven doesn't get a reply, we'll have her light the bastard up and plug `em."

"Aye sir.", Pinamachu complied.

"Coordinate with Archers 77 and 138, they may be able to move fighters in to intercept."

"Aye sir."

Normally, combat air patrols of space were tedious exercises in flying a circuit connecting imposed points in the great Nothing. Deep space was the worst where there were no points of reference to give indication of movement or progress- only the enveloping sphere of stars that never grew nearer or fell farther away. Only the man-made representation of space, a map on a screen usually filled with an equal quantity of nothing, gave any sign that one was going anywhere.

This was a _mostly_ normal combat air patrol.

First Lieutenant Amanda "Raven" Kroft partially blamed herself for her current predicament. In fact, the "predicament" could have only been considered a predicament if there had been something else to occupy a fighter pilot's time on an A.R.M.D. II other than to go through the routine of flying CAPs in the void. There wasn't in any significant way so Kroft considered the possibility that her assignment should be viewed as a "gift" of meaningful work. The optimistic whimsy collapsed as quickly as it had formed though.

Kroft had once heard an analogy that likened flying the VAF-6 series "Alpha" Veritech fighter to being as close as one could get to being an angel while still breathing.

In her eighteen months of operational experience with the second generation of Veritech fighter, Kroft had never had any reason to disagree. Like many Alpha pilots, most even, Kroft had been trained initially and had cut her teeth in the first generation Valkyries. A robust, and admirably performing machine, the Valkyrie had served its purpose well and in doing so had earned the apt nickname of "Zentraedi Buster".

As technology was certain to do though, the technology of the Valkyrie had matured and was approaching the verge of obsolescence.

Kroft, like many pilots, had sensed this. The "cutting edge" of the fighter pilot community walked hand in hand with the cutting edge of technology. Both were to be found in the emerging Robotech Expeditionary Force, to which Kroft had eagerly volunteered to transition. It had taken several months of supplemental training to shed her RDF and Valkyrie wings for those of an Alpha pilot.

The Alpha boasted its lineage from the Valkyrie in that it had retained the tri-configuration transformability that reserved it the title of "Veritech". What set the Alpha apart, if it were to be summed in a single word, would have been the word "capability".

The Valkyrie, in Kroft's mind, was a beast of raw power with refinement traded for ruggedness. It was a machine designed in a different time, a time when the enemy was only known second-hand. The Valkyrie's design reflected the information Zor had provided to his human beneficiaries about the Zentraedi. It was balanced to deliver the most firepower possible at all ranges in classic engagement scenarios.

As the immediate Zentraedi threat receded and the Invid threat rose as warned by every Zentraedi who had become ally- new thinking was required. No longer could the enemy be expected to approach or initiate an attack from great range. Zentraedi veterans of campaigns against the Invid could all tell tales of spacescapes or skies that could be clear one moment and in the next be obscured with thousands of Invid Shock Trooper mecha- all appearing at toe-to-toe distances with the singular goal of carnage, devoid of fear or pity.

The VAF-6 series Veritech was the reply of the Veritech Design Board. Fitted out with multiple internal missile launcher bays, able to be freed from all three combat configurations, the Alpha was unrivaled in the volume of fire it could deliver at ranges of eight kilometers or less. With the significantly greater rate of turn, and a smaller turning radius than the VF-1 Valkyrie- the Alpha's designers were confident they had conceived of a machine fit to contend with the Invid, leaving longer range engagement to ship-based systems within the fleet.

Kroft, like many pilots, though supremely confident in her machine had been reluctant to give up the "reach" she had known with the Valkyrie's long and intermediate range weapon capabilities. More than reluctant to quietly submit to the whims of a design board, the majority of whom would never face an Invid should the day of that conflict ever come, Kroft had been vocal if not outspoken in her views.

Fortunately, the commanding ranks of the REF had been permeated, and in some areas saturated with former pilots who had heard the concerns of their subordinates, understood them, and had found the wisdom to act. Before the first production run of the Alpha Veritechs had been completed, the military had mandated development of an intermediate range weapons capability for the already formidable Alpha.

What Kroft now flew was the reward for her effort- as was, she suspected, her stationing on Archer 42. It seemed that some sanctimonious "personalities" in the Veritech Design Board had contacts as well- and a well-developed sense of vengeance to boot. They had seen that she and the others like her had gotten what they wanted, but they had also seen that she would have her fill of it until she choked- _operational testing_ from such a posh posting as Archer 42.

She was flying though- and her upgraded Alpha was carrying six medium-range, Basilisk air-intercept missiles that she was to be firing off shortly. That was, if the targets she was expecting but not seeing on her omni-directional radar actually decided to make an appearance.

"Strong Arm, this is Banshee Eight.", Kroft said, contacting Archer 42 flight control as her navigation computer indicated she and her flight were approaching the designated exercise area, "I'm showing sixty seconds to the playground. We've got racks of missiles, but I'm not seeing any target drones in the exercise area. What's their status?"

"Banshee Eight, Strong Arm- stand by.", came the reply.

"Somebody forgot to launch the drones.", concluded Kroft's wingman, Stumpy, "Five bucks says so."

"Not likely.", Kroft replied, taking the opportunity to visually inspect what little she could see of the three missiles on the inboard two hard point rails under the port and starboard wings, "Flight control is as bored as we are. They were looking forward to vectoring us in to blow something up."

"Mechanical problem in the launchers, maybe?", suggested Stumpy.

Kroft gave a non-committal grunt, "Mmm."

"Banshee Leader, this is Strong Arm. Alter course for boogey intercept. This is not an exercise.", Archer 42's flight control instructed calmly and clearly, "Vector two-three-one mark four-two at maximum speed."

The words gave Kroft an electric shock that charged her brain and quickly filtered through her nerves to the extremities of her body. A live fire exercise had suddenly become the possibility of a live fire engagement.

"Copy that, Strong Arm. Two-three-one mark four-two, and pushing it to the stops.", Kroft replied, "Banshee Section, come left and up on new course."

Kroft rolled her fighter gently at first to allow the other pilots to stay with her in formation. Her turn became more aggressive though as she added power. The heading bar at the top of her Heads-Up Display slid smoothly through the degrees until Raven leveled and straightened her Alpha on the assigned course with her section still holding station.

"Banshees, go to maximum range scan and call those contacts as you see them.", Kroft instructed.

Kroft tapped the range selector icon on her radar MFD, increasing the display view to encompass the entire 400 kilometer range of the sensor. Her Alpha was central to the display, as was the flight of Alphas around her. Archer 42 was just under 200 kilometers off her port tail with the range opening rapidly. There were no other contacts apparent to her through the electronic eyes of her radar. InfoLink solved the problem as Kroft increased the range again and found the contacts through the sensor feed from Archer 42. The boogey's track was displayed clearly and Kroft was confident that she was vectored appropriately to intercept- but oddly her tactical combat computer was providing her with no information on what she was intercepting.

"Strong Arm, Raven-.", the pilot said, comfortable with doing things the "old fashion" way, "I'm getting no ID on our friend-. Care to fill me in?"

"Raven, Strong Arm Actual.", Lieutenant Commander Queffle's voice came through, "I need you to look and act sharp out there. Active returns say it's the right size to be a Re-Entry Pod, but the passive scan analysis is inconclusive. It could be a derelict, or he could be playing possum."

Kroft knew Queffle- on a posting as small as an A.R.M.D. II, it was impossible to not at least recognize everyone after only the shortest of time. It was unusual though that he should take it upon himself to interact directly with his pilots while they were on mission. This implied importance in Kroft's mind.

"Just put the ball over the plate and I'll hit it.", Kroft replied.

"Copy that Raven, the pitch is coming. I'm going to need you to make hostile challenge first. Confidence is high that this is not one of ours, but we need to be sure. Make challenge, and if you receive no reply consider the boogey a bandit and engage."

"Instructions understood clearly, Actual."

"Bag `em, Raven. Actual out."

 _Bag `em._ Kroft was eager to let fly her missiles, but she knew full well that "bagging" something as large as a Re-Entry Transport Pod required more firepower than she alone, and likely the section as a whole, was toting. The Basilisks that her Alpha had been armed with for the live fire exercise were formidable to a target drone or even a Zentraedi fighter or mecha- but the Re-Entry Transport was comparable in size to Archer 42. Using air intercept missiles against it was analogous to hunting buffalo with a .22. You could get lucky and hit something vital, but more than likely you were just going to be an annoyance.

A single "alert" beep from Kroft's tactical computer informed her that her radar was now tracking independently of the InfoLink feed. The image on her MFD changed little save a slight alteration in iconography to signify tracking mode- testimony to the reliability of the InfoLink track data versus direct tracking.

"Tally.", Kroft announced, "Single boogey on two-seven-six level. Range is three-eighty and closing- twenty-eight thousand knots closure. Banshees on-guard."

Kroft expanded the range of her communications band to cover standard Zentraedi communications frequencies, "Craft off my starboard nose, this is Blue Banshee Section Leader. Identify yourself or you will be fired upon."

Kroft waited, listening to dead air.

The attempt to communicate was merely a formality. Even if the boogey had a Zentraedi pilot listening, the alien was as likely to comprehend English as Kroft was to start speaking Zentraedi.

The contact blip moved rapidly across Kroft's tactical MFD, the range evaporating. Kroft had always prided herself on the ability to "eyeball" a situation and regularly be on the money with her assessment. Looking at the movement of the boogey and the movement of her flight, she got the immediate impression that she would not close to within shooting range of her weapons.

She was going to miss the intercept.

"Damnit.", Kroft muttered softly, "Strong Arm, Raven. We're going to be on the outside of a maximum range shot. I intend to take the shot anyway."

"Raven, Strong Arm. Copy that."

Kroft scanned the star field visually. She would never get close enough to actually put eyes on the target, but as her gaze passed over the area of space through which the contact was passing, a target indicator box appeared on the inside of her helmet visor. The range had shrunk to two hundred kilometers and Kroft tried to kindle the flicker of hope that her instinct had been incorrect.

"Alright Banshees, let's bring something home to hang up on the wall.", Kroft said encouragingly though she herself did not completely feel it, "Go weapons hot and lock on. Stand by for my order to fire. Maybe the guys at the factory packed a little extra fuel into these weapons."

Kroft flipped the master safety switch on her control console and then tapped the master weapons arm icon on the weapons system MFD. The missiles were ready to fly.

The trick was now to decide when to let them fly. Missiles, despite their refinements were still mostly as dumb as fence posts, only considerably more expensive. They would follow the reflected radar energy from the target in a straight line until either they found the target or ran out of fuel. Inside of their designed maximum range, there was rarely an issue. Kroft knew she would be firing from outside that range, so releasing the weapons at the right moment was the difference between having the weapons run dry on fuel well short of the target and the slim chance that they would hit. Like a gunfighter of the mythical Old West, there was an intuition in knowing when to shoot.

As Kroft watched the movement of the target indicator box and the decrease of range, a twinge in her gut told her the moment was at hand.

" _Shoot!_ "

The flare of burning rocket engines and their dissipating white smoke trails raced away from the section of Alphas and were quickly lost to space.

"Missiles away.", Kroft said, turning her attention to the radar MFD before her.

The tracks of the weapons fired reached towards the traversing bandit as thin fingers of light. Kroft could immediately tell the convergence point on the screen and fixed her gaze upon it intently. There was no indication that the bandit was attempting to evade- leading Kroft to believe she had just released hell on a drifting wreck.

Moments would tell.

Cold.

Cold was the first sensation that Action Commander Kevtok felt that he could identify. It was not a uniform cold, but reached from his head to his mid-chest and continued to descend as he became aware of it.

It was in fact the draining of the emersion fluid from the stasis tube that had sustained him in the thin grey region between artificial hibernation and death for an entire season. Kevtok, in the haze of this, his second Awakening, was not yet functioning on a level to reason this and rather only felt the cold sting on his skin.

Lungs attempted to draw air, only to find themselves still filled with fluid.

The panic reaction jolted Kevtok to full consciousness as the restraints of the opening stasis tube released him, dropping him to the deck where his lungs purged the translucent blue fluid in three great jets.

Agony wracked Kevtok's frame, doubling him over as his lungs seized in convulsive spasms with the instinct of expelling the liquid that had kept him alive for so long.

As the last trickle of stasis fluid dripped from Kevtok's mouth and nostrils, he gained enough control to recognize his need for air. The mind realized it, but the lungs were grudging in their response.

 _Breathe._

Air rushed into Kevtok's lungs, feeling like fire in the transition from fluid. Again his lungs rebelled, expelling more fluid in hacking coughs, but the next breath came quicker, easier, and less painfully.

A sense of his surroundings began to come to Kevtok as he knelt, propped up on all fours, in a spreading pool of stasis fluid that continued to drip from his naked form. Through bleary vision brought on by hibernation and the cruel intensity of the lighting, the Serhot Ran officer was able to get his bearings. Blurred shapes and forms slowly became the stasis tubes of his security team and the survey team in the stasis compartment of the Re-Entry Transport Pod that had been constructed especially for his mission.

 _The mission._

Something had occurred that had to do with the mission. Kevtok knew it.

Quaking with tremors that stemmed from being rapidly brought from near-death to fully conscious state, Kevtok managed to rise to his knees as he continued to fight the grogginess that hung heavily upon him.

Something that had to do with the mission was wrong.

Kevtok winced as a flashing strobe light stung his eyes that were tender from disuse. The strobe continued to flash along with a coinciding buzz that slowly registered in the action commander's mind as-.

 _Alarm_.

Something was wrong. Kevtok's mind cleared quickly as his suspicion was realized. His muscles stimulated periodically throughout hibernation were still weak and slow to respond as Kevtok struggled to reach a standing posture.

Though his body was still in the process of reviving, Kevtok's mind was now racing. The planned scenario had had the entire security team of twenty-four revived at the same time to land the transport, assess the immediate situation, and then wake the survey team. There were other contingencies; too numerous to count, in which Kevtok would be revived first before awakening others at his discretion. The ship had power and cabin pressure, so the danger was not of an immediate nature. All Kevtok knew was what he didn't know. He had no idea of the reason for which he had been awakened, nor did he even know where he was awakening. He had to get to the command deck for answers- but first-.

Kevtok made his way unsteadily to the control station near the hatchway to the cramped stasis compartment. The screen of the solitary display reacted to his touch as he went through a short menu of action options to find the one he was looking for. As the action commander moved from the control station to a small series of lockers nearby, one of which contained his utility uniform, the transport's computers began the accelerated process of reviving the portion of the security team best suited to act as a flight crew.

The missile icons on Kroft's MFD began to blink rapidly to show that their terminal guidance had taken over just as they reached the end of their endurance. As the tracks began to converge on the target, Kroft could see the faltering of weapons as their engines exhausted their fuel supply. The radar showed the multiple blips on the screen, target and missiles, become one- but the pilot knew it to be entirely possible that the missiles had all run dry and were simply sailing harmlessly by in space.

The appearance of an osculating halo around the target icon on the MFD sent a charge of excitement through Kroft as it indicated at least one missile detonation on target.

"Strong Arm, Raven- good strike! I've got a good strike on target!"

From the other end of the channel, Kroft could hear cheers being hastily quieted in Archer 42's command center as Lieutenant Commander Queffle replied, "We're copying that too, Raven. Nice shooting-."

Queffle watched the tactical display as the more powerful and sensitive radar systems of the A.R.M.D. II showed evidence that the target was at the least trailing debris.

"-We'll have to get back to you on whether that's a damaged target or a kill, Raven. Good work. Bring your flight home."

"Roger that, Strong Arm."

Queffle turned to his TAO, saying, "Get on the horn with the RDF Approach Command- feed them the telemetry we've compiled if they haven't been tracking and let them know that they could have a crippled Zentraedi craft coming down somewhere. With any luck, they'll have fighters that can either confirm the splash or finish the job."

"Aye sir."

Queffle raised his voice to the rest of the command center, "Settle down, everyone and let's get our eyes back outwards. We're here to knock down bigger things than the random, stray transport. Back to work!"

The burning of air in Lt. Moyrt's lungs was accompanied by a strong and, in his disoriented state, distantly familiar and alarming odor. A hand found his shoulder in the brilliant haze as Moyrt forced his eyes to open and gave him three shoves, each more pronounced than the last.

"Moyrt- get up.", Lt. Hyra's voice croaked hoarsely, the muting effects of the stasis fluid in which both Serhot Ran officers now lay on the deck still at work on her, "Something's wrong."

Moyrt fought to raise himself and found that his weight had somehow tripled- or not. No, it was his muscles slowly returning to life after artificial hibernation, he realized though the end effect was the same. Moyrt collapsed with a splash back into the stasis fluid on the deck.

In his slowly clearing vision, Hyra was scarcely doing better. Her naked form appeared as a light blue mass against a misty field of grey and white. Moyrt turned over in his mind what she had said to him and tried to recall the words to form a question. His lungs drew breath again and this time the smell of smoke was distinct, and the lieutenant's brain made the connection.

Hyra was right- something was wrong.

The lights of the stasis compartment shone mercilessly as Moyrt raised his head to study his surroundings, his eyes reacting with the same sensation as having metal shards slowly driven into them. The warrior could make out no fine details- only shapes- and something else, something out of place. Contrasted against the white and grey of fabricated materials was an amorphous and fluctuating cloud of deepest orange.

"Fire.", Moyrt heard himself mumble before he had consciously identified th danger and its implication.

Moyrt felt a surge of blood rush through him as reflex jolted his system. Hyra was rousing as well and as Moyrt's vision began to clear further he could make her out as she got all four limbs beneath herself and was able to keep them there..

"We're on fire.", Moyrt said again, able to maintain himself in a kneeling position.

His eyes were focused enough now to see that the licks of flame were appearing between and around the stasis tubes of the crew. He could not recall the details but knew that there should have been a fire suppression system to neutralize the threat.

"We need to put that out.", Hyra replied after an extended silence that almost made the response seem disjointed.

"I'll put it out.", Moyrt said, "You get to the flight deck and see what you can do from there. We may have collided with something."

Hyra only nodded her reply as she found hand-holds and support enough on anchored equipment to rise onto wobbly legs. By memory and improving vision, she found her way to the compartment door and actuated the controls to open it.

A roar deafened both warriors as the atmosphere in the stasis compartment exploded out into the small corridor beyond, carrying Hyra with it and sent her skidding across the deck plates. Air shrieked through ruptured seals and gaps in the hull as it evacuated into space. Simultaneously a steady hiss showed the transport's life support system was struggling to equalize the pressure by releasing new atmosphere into the pressure hull from the ship's reserve tanks. The struggle between the two forces created a tempest in the confined spaces. The introduction of fresh oxygen fueled the flames in the stasis compartment, causing Moyrt to momentarily recoil from the heat.

In the excitement of the moment, both officers had regained nearly all of their senses. Hyra, picking herself up off the deck and began to move toward Moyrt who was freeing the firefighting equipment from its clearly marked locker. Seeing her returning to his side, Moyrt motioned upward.

"I've got this! Get the ship under control!"

Action Commander Kevtok's attention was keenly on the operation of the transport's flight controls, nearly to the point of not noticing Hyra as she entered the command deck dropped into the co-pilot's seat. He no longer needed the status displays to tell him what was wrong with the massive craft- it was dying. The only question was how quickly would it expire, and would that time be enough to set down on the planet that now loomed massive and dark before him? Three engines had failed already from the strike of three, perhaps four missiles, and another was in the process of failing.

The initial impact had been only the slightest of jars, and Kevtok had thought that his first act of setting the automatic revival of a flight crew had been unwarranted. In less than a minute though, a damaged engine had gone critical and blown itself apart rather than shutting down as designed. The damage from that explosion had been cascading through the ship's other systems ever since and was presenting the real threat that the entire mission could be lost. If the power failed before Kevtok could put the transport either into a stable orbit or firmly on ground, the ship would likely either burn up in the planet's atmosphere having hit it at too high a speed and steep an angle, or if it did survive the fiery descent- crash and shatter. The power had to hold out to save the ship as there was no "gliding" a Re-Entry Transport.

"Engines Three, Four, and Six are off the line-.", Hyra announced, falling into her role of supporting Kevtok as pilot, "Five is failing. The reactor is showing multiple caution warnings, and primary sensors are down."

Kevtok had not been aware that his sensors had gone out as well. His first, and last glimpse of his new foe had been of blips on a screen- fighters of one form or another that had loosed the missiles on his ship. Now blind and wounded, Kevtok could not even be certain as to whether or not the same fighters weren't now closing in to finish him off.

"We need to set down.", Kevtok decided aloud, noticing for the first time that it was Hyra who had joined him on the command deck-still unclothed.

Hyra had that kind of focus, and Kevtok was happy that she was in the co-pilot's seat to assist.

"There's no response from the navigation computer.", Hyra protested, "We'll be going in mostly blind."

"There's a flight of hostile craft out there that did this to us-.", Kevtok replied, unswayed by Hyra's concerns, "We've got a better chance with the planet than we do fighting them."

Hyra instantly understood Kevtok's point and complied without further delay, "I'll call up the last good telemetry from the navigation computer and see if I can work out an approach heading for you. We should start to bleed off some velocity now though, while we still have reliable power."

Kevtok shook his head- through the view ports the field of stars had been completely consumed by the dark mass of the planet- "No, I want to hold off on reducing our speed until the last moment. Our ability to run is about all that we have in our favor right now."

Hyra did not comment as there was no point, Kevtok had made a decision and therefore it was her decision as well. She busied herself instead with retrieving the last reliable data on the ship's flight path and began to construct its changes in course since using the more meager data from the inertial guidance system.

"Recommend new course to shallow our approach.", Hyra said, working the calculations on the reduced functionality of the navigation computer's back-up systems, "Come left seventy-two degrees and plus fifty to pitch on the nose."

Kevtok took manual control of the transport and found the controls sluggish but responsive as he adjusted the craft's path according to Hyra's instructions.

"We'll need to execute powered breaking on my hack minus three hundred for optimal atmospheric interface.", Hyra announced, "Hack."

Kevtok noted the time on the ship's chronometer so he would be able to execute the maneuver at the correct time.

He could count the elapsing seconds, but other thoughts and concerns began to flood his mind. If he was able to land, would he still be in command of a force that could effectively carry out its mission? Kevtok noted that he was seeing stars again over the convex, darkness of the planet's night horizon. Kevtok found focus again and resolved to fly the ship.

Whatever was to happen would happen down there.

 **Edwards Air Force Base**

The MP at the tarmac perimeter fence gave a look of mixed skepticism and acknowledgement as he saluted and waved the Wolverine through his post at the gate. Lt. Col. Dalton knew the sergeant personally and that combined with a clear display of his credentials was enough to get the vehicle through- even with Linda Dalton at the wheel.

Attractive in a simple and faded way, Linda had done little to ornament herself for her husband's brief going-away- wearing a tank top shirt with a pair of faded and worn khaki service trousers, and having put her medium-length brown hair into a ponytail for the unremarkable occasion of dropping her husband, and Winters, off at "work".

Linda's lack of sentimentality for the moment was of no concern to Fred Dalton, but rather a sign that she was well accustomed to the life that his occupation dictated to them. What to others might have seemed indifference, to Fred Dalton was just his wife acting as she always had. She was confident that he would do his job well and return, so there was never a need for drama.

Rio, because of her past or perhaps just because of her nature, was given to more visible displays of her insecurities- in her own silent way.

Winters sat on the passenger bench, behind Linda where his legs had more room. Despite sufficient space to conservatively sprawl, he was pressed into the corner formed by the seat and the door frame. Rio was pressed into his side making contact at all points possible, with the sleeve of his leather flight jacket held securely in a tightly closed fist as though he would try to escape before the last moment.

One who did not know Winters would have sworn that escape was exactly the thing on his mind, his body language seeming indicative of nothing short of fear of the young woman half his size. Dalton knew Winters though as he knew Linda, and had been aware since the beginning that Winters' quirks sometimes conflicted with Rio's. Somehow, they still managed to work- as well as anything or anyone did in this world. Winters even slipped occasionally and showed a moment of tenderness toward her publicly. Hadn't he knocked the teeth out of a man's head in her defense? Dalton was fairly certain this wasn't coincidence.

Fairly certain.

"Which one now?", Linda asked, her eyes shifting quickly from one set of buildings to another, all looking identical to her.

"Over on the right", Fred told her, pointing, "The one with the squadron ensignia on it."

A hand left the steering wheel to ball into a fist, "Don't make me have to get busted today on damaging government property."

"I love it when you talk dirty.", Fred said, putting the fist to his lips and kissing it as Linda pulled up into an open parking slot.

Linda noticed Winters' handywork in the form of the "He-Man's Woman Hater's Club" sign on the door and decided not to kill the engine.

"Nice touch, Jack."

From the rear, Winters took a moment to recognize the origin of the comment.

"Oh, that. Simple emphasis of the rules, love.", he explained, "Nothing interesting inside there though- just your winning lottery numbers and the secrets of the universe."

"Whatever.", Linda laughed, "I'll try not to let the pondering of that distract me too much. I'd hate to back over you as you were getting your bag out of the back."

Winters opened his door and nearly fell out from Rio's spring-like tension against him. Her hand refused to relinquish his sleeve so he gently coaxed her out of the vehicle behind him.

"She's never lost her feistiness.", Winters said, only half dismissing Linda's threat to back over him.

"And I never will.", Linda replied, "Get lost."

Winters shook his head and with Rio in tow headed to the Wolverine's rear, "Come, love, help me get my kit from the boot."

Fred Dalton kissed his wife briefly on the lips, stroking her cheek.

"I'll be back at the end of the week."

"I know.", Linda said, "Go."

"The pistol in the nightstand is loaded. Keep the doors and windows locked at night."

"Just like every night.", Linda sighed, allowing Fred to go through his routine, "Go on."

"And I asked the MPs to just cruise by a few times to check on you and the kids."

Linda removed her sunglasses to ensure that her withering look carried its full weight on her husband, "Are you still here? Because if you want, _you_ can go home and _I'll_ fly your damn mission."

"You hate flying."

"I'll learn to like it."

"Why?"

"So I can shoot down Jack."

Dalton opened his door and slid out without looking away from his wife, "I think I'd better do the flying."

"Good. Go."

"Look", Winters explained quietly to Rio in a steady and assuring voice, "It's a quick flight down, a couple of days there, and a flight back. No worries- we do this in our sleep."

Rio nodded her understanding but her eyes still argued with Winters.

"I'll get you something nice while I'm there.", he said, attempting a bribe, "A tropical plant or something. Maybe a parrot to eat that sickly cat of yours."

A faint hint of a smile crept onto Rio's face as she struck Winters repeatedly on the chest in defense of her pet.

"You should stay with Linda.", Dalton said, having approached without being noticed, "The boys would love to see you, and you won't have to be in that little trailer that this prick keeps you locked up in."

"See?- Do that.", Winters agreed, "I'll be back before you miss me."

Rio's pout said all.

"Or not.", Winters corrected himself.

Winters gently loosened Rio's grip on his jacket and gave her a kiss on the forehead before stepping away. Rio knew that this was all she was to get and nearly adhering to the body of the Wolverine slipped quickly around the side and and retreated into the passenger seat.

Winters and Dalton walked briskly toward the flight prep building as the Wolverine pulled away. Dalton didn't look back because of an agreement reached long ago with Linda, nor did Winters for whatever reason he had.

"You know, Jack.", Dalton pointed out as they reached the door, "You could tell the poor girl you love her from time to time."

"Yep."

"Okay.", Dalton sighed heavily as he opened the door for the CO, "I'll never understand you."

"Nope."

Lyle watched with a guardian's interest as the weapons handling crew made their final checks on the missiles they had secured to _Marilyn_ 's six wing pylons. Technically speaking, they were more familiar with the assortment of missiles that the fighter had been armed with, were thoroughly and specifically trained in their handling, and therefore better suited to know that their job had been done correctly. Still, Lyle made no apologies for occasionally turning an eye their way.

"Sir, the final load manifest."

Lyle looked away from his fighter and to the towering form of Senior Airman Ghurdyt, whose long shadow engulfed Lyle completely in the early morning sun.

"Thanks.", Lyle said, taking the printout of the items and supplies that had been loaded onto a small transport aircraft that would accompany the squadron to Salvador to attend to their needs.

Ghurdyt stood rigidly near Lyle, in a state as near to reverence as Lyle had ever seen a Zentraedi in. This was not uncommon with the ranks of the indoctrinated aliens. Their sense of respecting those higher than themselves in the chain of command made those of even the most abiding human pale in comparison. For Lyle, it was just on the bearable side of uncomfortable, but he recognized the display as genuine.

"Ya don' always have'ta say, _sir_.", Lyle said, going through a speech he had gone through with Ghurdyt and the other Zentreadi that had found themselves under his charge a thousand times before, "We all work `round here, y'know."

Maybe, Lyle speculated, between his lax attitude and their rigid dispositions, they could meet somewhere in the middle. Maybe.

"Yes, sir.", Ghurdyt said, _sir_ smacking strongly of what in Zentraedi would have been, _lord._

Maybe not.

"Lyle, are we set?"

Lyle looked up from the manifest and felt his heart leap into his throat. A sideways glance at Ghurdyt showed him feeling the same way, though outwardly suppressing it more convincingly than Lyle.

Winters was less than a dozen paces away from the aircraft captain and one of the three Zentraedi that he had so recently drawn his weapon on. The other two, contrary to Winters' direct if not highly agitated orders were making a spot check of his Valkyrie's control surfaces. Lyle braced expecting another explosion.

"Good Christ, man-.", Winters said, stopping four strides short of Lyle and his subordinate, "Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine, Ah-.", Lyle stammered, beginning to explain.

"You look as though you're trying to pass a pineapple. Are we set?"

Lyle nodded, "Yeah, just-. Just waitin' fer ya ta do a walk `round."

Winters swung his helmet by the chin strap as he glanced across the tarmac at the two Zentraedi checking over his fighter. A hint of deep-rooted loathing flickered in his eyes that was perceivable to Lyle and which made him cringe inwardly. The flicker passed though without reaching a detonation point.

"Good enough then.", Winters said, strutting past with helmet in one hand, swagger stick in the other, and a knapsack slung over one shoulder, "I'll get on my end then."

Winters advanced another half dozen paces, slowing in apparent deliberate effort of thought. He paused and turned on his heel, saying casually back in the direction of Lyle and Ghurdyt, "I have some regrets about some of my recent actions. We'll do our best to see that it doesn't happen again."

"Whell-.", Lyle begain.

Winters cut him short, "Lyle, have these blokes ever worked in the field?"

Lyle shook his head, "Naw, not on this detail."

"We'd better get them some practice then.", Winters said, clearly at odds with himself, "Practice makes perfect, and all of that. We're wheels up in thirty. Think they can gather their kits?"

Lyle shrugged, "Sure- but-."

"But nothing.", Winters said, "Get them hopping. I figure they're partly to blame for this nonsense- they're not going to skip out on it now."

"Ah'll see to it.", Lyle complied.

 **Egerton, England**

The same scene played itself out all around Andy Johnson. Perfect variations of the same scene.

A son or daughter looking hesitant, questioning within a decision made weeks before, would embrace a parent or parents and in some case siblings. Words of caution and encouragement would be exchanged before a final, sometimes teary embrace. One by one, the sons and daughters would then board the unmarked, idling, grey touring-style bus, and vanish as though consumed by the machine.

None carried luggage- not even a bag. It was understood that the Service would dispose of all the recruits had with them upon arrival at the training depot. The outer layer that marked each as civilian would be peeled away and replaced with a façade of the military- a symbolic shell to be filled and fitted out.

Andy watched the separation of Cedric Collins and his mother. There was clearly pain and anxiety, and as Mrs. Collins gave her son up to the grey beast there were tears in abundance- but the process had been simple in execution. Andy knew that his moment was rapidly approaching and he hoped it would go as smoothly.

Of course, Andy knew better.

Loretta Johnson had insisted on accompanying Howard as he saw Andy off at the bus station despite a sleepless night she had spent crying. Andy knew she had spent the night this way because despite his best efforts he had heard her weeping, sometimes in fits, from the master bedroom down the hall fom his own room. He had heard this much the same way as he had heard his father's distinctive pacing with cane all night back and forth across the parlor floor.

In truth, Andy's moment was already different from the others who had boarded the bus as his moment of pause had been hours of pause, and had stretched out over the preceding ten hours. Or maybe his moment had been no different, and the others concealed it better with iron stoicism and stiff upper lips.

Loretta Johnson wore black.

Not the same kind of dress she had worn at his brother Dexter's funeral service, but the image came back to Andy strongly as she held tightly to Howard's unfiformed arm. The pale color of her face was a stark contrast to the material of the dress, and had Andy had a scrap of humor left to him he might have mused that she looked ready for her own funeral.

He had no humor left in him though.

Dexter Johnson Sr. was not to be found in the thinning crowd of the station. Andy had expected to have a final shouting match earlier that morning as he departed, but the house had remained eerily silent. Quick and passing glimpses of his office had shown the door to be open and Dexter Johnson Sr. nowhere to be seen. Sadly, in his heart and mind Andy knew this to be the best thing. Better no parting words than angry ones.

"They'll let us call when we get there.", Andy said coming short on anything better to say.

"Just to say that you've made it.", Howard warned, stroking his mother's hand reassuringly as it dug into the fabric of his uniform coat, "Better say your lot now."

Andy leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek, "You've always taught me to go forward and do the right thing without looking back. I have faith that I'm doing it. I need you to have faith in me too."

Loretta's hand found her son's cheek with the gentle caress of a mother with her infant, "It's just that you're so young."

Andy took the hand and kissed it, "But I can't stay that way."

The tears began to flow from Loretta as Andy felt the time to separate from his family arrive. Looking to Howard for some kind of affirmation, he found only surprise and for a moment thought that his brother had disapproved of what he had said.

Then Andy glanced back.

Dexter Johnson Sr. stood within an able man's stride, leaning heavily on his cane, his face ashen but strong.

"Da, I-.", Andy began to say, and then realized that he not only had no explanation, but did not even know what he was trying to explain.

Dexter silenced him and motioned Andy closer with a single gesture.

His voice was strained, saying, "I'm proud, boy-. It's just that we Johnsons are so damn strong-headed. You'll realize that one day when you have sons."

The arm that had motioned Andy closer encircled him and embraced him.

"I have faith."

The supervising sergeant standing near the door of the bus called out, seeing that Andy was the last of the recruits remaining off the bus, "Come on then, lad. Three more stops before Falkirk, and we've a schedule to keep."

Dexter Johnson released his son with a firm pat on the back, and numbed by the exchange Andy drifted aboard the bus light as the air.

Cedric pulled Andy down into the seat beside him as he threatened to pass by. The bus was already in motion and by the time the thought had occurred to Andy to look, the station and his family were already beyond his sight.

"That was touching.", Cedric prodded, "Everyone have a good squirt, did they?"

"Let it drift, Cedric.", Andy said feeling suddenly cold and apprehensive.

"Not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No-. None at all."

"Good, because you'd be right buggered. You're in it now, Andy Johnson."

 **Mexico City**

General Leonard stood at the window of his office within the ASC Headquarters compound and took in the city.

The building housing his office had been one of the first to be constructed on the ruins of Old Mexico City, and therefore was by no means the tallest or the most impressive. The time would come when the ASC would build a new facility that suited Leonard better and spoke more accurately to the self-made accomplishments of the Southern Cross. Until that time, Leonard was content to see the subtle changes in the direction of progress made every day in the city that both figuratively and literally grew around him.

One could see the growth every day if one was keen enough to pick up on the details of rising steel building frames or of the ever-expanding web of city streets.

In truth, today Leonard was only mildly aware of this growth, and even less interested.

Today, Leonard's attention was captured by a file he had received by secure, internal, ASC email. It was a file with no sender, and whose contents had taken the better part of two hours to completely print to hard copy.

At a table in his office, six scientific and industrial advisors and their own aides pored over the print-outs, silent in awe as they had been for a little better than an hour.

"So", Leonard said simply, "Are we to be impressed?"

Leonard's industrial advisor, an oddly short and stocky man with wide-set eyes was the first and only one at the table to muster words. Perhaps what he had to say satisfied all around him.

"Oh yes. Most definitely yes.", the man said, laying his hand upon the printed pages the way that clergy often touched a sacred text, "You cannot believe the number of questions these documents alone have answered-. What's on this table is literally worth years of development and testing. Where did this come from?"

Leonard nodded, "Thank you, that will be all. You will of course have more access to these documents, and many more like them. But for now, I need to ask you to leave."

Reluctantly, the men at the table rose in mass and left behind the wealth of knowledge they had been given a taste of. The quickly bound volumes remained open to the pages that had been under study as the last of the men left Leonard's office, shutting the door behind himself as he stepped through the doorway.

General Leonard had crossed the room to his desk and was not quite seated when the phone at the corner rang. Leonard allowed it to ring again, noting that the ring tone was indicative of a direct call from the outside- an anomally as all calls normally came through his administrative assistant.

Leonard picked up the receiver and listened.

"General Leonard-. Alone at last.", came the man's voice on the other end.

"Mr. Lott, a pleasure to hear from you."

"Not so pleasing as the reading material sent to you, I trust."

"Charming as you are, no."

"Then can I take it that we have an agreement for mutually beneficial cooperation?"

"Yes, Mr. Lott, I think we do."

"Excellent, General Leonard. I'm very pleased to hear that. Arriving in your email at this moment is a list of officers and non-commissioned officers in your ranks through whom we would life to make contact and establish necessary relationships. We trust that the list will meet your approval as they are all personnel whom you have called upon yourself to do various tasks from time to time. Please see to it within the next six hours that all on the list know that they will be contacted by our chosen representatives within twenty-four hours. All future communications between our two organizations, General Leonard, will be carried out through these channels barring some unforeseen event. Regrettably, I doubt that you and I will speak again directly."

"That is a pity.", Leonard said, feigning disappointment, "You seemed to be a person who would have been interesting to know."

"All the better reason to sever our ties now, General Leonard. It's better this way. It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance, General Leonard. Goodbye."

The line went dead and returned to a dial tone.

Out of curiosity, Leonard pressed the button to dial the last number coming into the phone. The phone was unresponsive having no number to dial in memory.

Lott was gone like smoke in the wind.

Leonard did not dwell on the execution of a well-orchestrated, technical slight-of-hand trick. He instead called up his email and found, as Lott had promised, a message with an attachment that had no sender.

Leonard opened the attachment and began to scan through the names.

135


	4. The Emissaries

**Chapter Three**

 **The Emissaries**

"Homogeneity: I vaguely remember notions of it. It used to be the state that they said the world population was moving toward. I guess dropping a billion aliens, plus or minus a few, changes things somewhat.

The introduction of the Zentraedi into the mix seems to have redefined the demographic lines again globally. I guess that keeps things more interesting than the path to cultural ambiguity that the world had been on. It reintroduced humans to that odd thrill of being able to step off the vessel of their choosing onto a distant shore and feel the genuine sense of being in another world.

You can kind of imagine what Polo, or Columbus, or Cook felt I suppose. Unfortunately though, like in those days of exploration, when worlds collide, they also tend to explode.

The difference is, that these days the weapons have a little more punch and the explosions are that much more impressive."

Lt Col Fred Dalton

Executive Officer,

623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron

 **Brasilia, Brazil**

There was a softening chill in the air and the morning sun still threw long shadows of buildings, but the sidewalk seating of one of the human district's many cafes was already filled to capacity. Waiters and waitresses, each unique in their uniformed anonymity glided in a server's acquired manner of walking in and out of the broad door just off to the right of the café's large paned windows that led directly back into the kitchen. Like human drones providing for the sustenance of a hive, they bore coffee in carafes, or trays of food to the tables where equally anonymous "regulars" chatted between themselves at "intimate" (a euphemism for "far too small to be practical" that had survived the near obliteration of culture to continue to provide a trendy word for the set into "power" breakfasts, lunches, or dinners) tables clustered tightly against the café's front. Coffee, tea, and juices were poured, plates of food set before patrons who punctuated every several minutes with glances at their watches to monitor the elapse of time before the assorted and various events that would fill their days. Patrons were served as others finished and exited to have the evidence of their presence quickly cleared, replaced with pristine settings, and the process begun again by the servers in their ballet of hospitality.

At a table no different than any of the others, except that she had waited specifically for it and for the desirable feature of having a seat with its back to a solid wall and a superior view of the rest of the café and the sidewalk beyond, Lilith sat with her second cup of coffee in hand- a fruit plate and hard boiled egg on the table in front of her, with an ashtray containing three cigarette butts to the side.

"You found the place easy enough?"

"Yes ma'am.", replied the elder of the two men across the table from her.

Lilith hadn't traded more than a dozen words with either in the time between when they had arrived, punctually at seven, and when the waitress had come to take their orders. She and they had said about as much in the time between when the waitress had floated back into the kitchen and when she had returned with their conservative meals.

In that time, Lilith had actually had brief exchanges with the senior of the two men. Well tanned and weather-worn, it was only after closer study over the passing time that Lilith pegged his age at somewhere in his mid-thirties. His junior, in all respects, had probably a decade less to him, though he was equally marked by the outdoor elements. Still, there was something in the ten year difference in age between he and his senior that marked him as younger as clearly as if it had been stenciled across his forehead.

There were many characteristics that distinguished the two men for who and what they were as clearly as if they had been labeled. Lilith had suspected that this would be the case and had chosen this particular café for a meeting place for that very reason. Patrons here saw and noticed little beyond the world that they brought with them to their intimate little power-breakfast tables.

Both men wore khaki casual dress pants pressed with creases so defined and sharp that they could have been used as edged weapons. Their shirts, of the polo variety , were maintained with equal meticulous attention to detail and worn accordingly. The addition of spotless casual shoes and regulation length haircuts added up with other physical characteristics marked the two as unmistakably military.

So much for "blending in".

Lilith abruptly leaned forward and rubbed out her fourth cigarette in the ashtray and began the conversation anew

"I've read your jackets; I've seen where you've been and what you can do. Three years as a team, two of them operating deep in unstable regions of the Control Zone performing _surgical removal_ of high value targets- mostly Zentraedi, some not-."

Sergeant First Class Byron Oakes, the elder of the two men, shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the disclosure of such information in a public place, "Ma'am, most of our activities are classified- we shouldn't-."

Lilith picked up her coffee cup and motioned casually around her, "Shouldn't discuss them in a café? Trust me, Sergeant, this is the best place to discuss whatever we want. As long as you don't stand between these people and their seven-thirty meeting, they don't even notice you. That's my business to know these things, and to know things about you."

Oakes shrugged and picked up his own coffee mug, "Fair enough, it's your operation. It looks like you've read our resumes, I didn't think we were going to have to interview too."

Lilith went for her cigarettes again, extracting one from the pack for herself and offering the pack to the two men.

Both declined with a simple shake of their heads.

"Don't think of it as an interview so much as a _getting to know you_ session.", Lilith explained, snapping the lid of her lighter shut like punctuation.

"I didn't think you'd want to get to know us.", Oakes said.

"Not in any personal way, of course.", Lilith admitted, "But there are a few things that don't always come through in a dossier that is important to this kind of work."

"Such as?", Oakes asked.

"Well", Lilith said, picking through her fruit plate to find a cube of honeydew that passed the squeeze test of ripeness that marked it suitable for consumption, "there's the important question of, _why?_ "

"I'm not tracking.", Oakes said readily, "Why we're here? We were offered a mission. We were told that it was high risk, but highly important. We took it."

"I appreciate that.", Lilith said, realizing that the younger man was watching the exchange between she and his senior in much the same way a spectator watched a tennis match, "Does he talk?"

"When I have to."

Corporal Jordan Gyle had been ready to start on his breakfast when the need to enter the conversation had presented itself.

"Sergeant Oakes knows how I think, so his questions are mine and vice versa. You two seemed to be getting a rhythm going- I didn't want to interrupt."

"Ms. Lilith-.", Oakes began.

" _Mister_ , please.", Lilith corrected, "It's an office policy thing that would take too long to explain- trust me."

"Okay then, Mr. Lilith", Oakes continued, "we're not dullards, thugs, or goose-stepping robots. We're professionals, and we were led to believe that our skills could be used here. That's why we volunteered."

"Of course.", Lilith said, "That's the professional _why_. I'm talking about the personal _why_. Your jacket says you have a wife and two children."

"Two daughters."

Lilith nodded toward Gyle, "He has no family and has your wife listed as an emergency contact."

"I'm still not tracking", Oakes said, "Where are we going with this?"

"What I'm saying is that this target isn't like those you've done in the field.", Lilith explained, "The target isn't raiding settlements or in imminent danger of jeopardizing the lives of your comrades or disrupting ASC operations. What you're volunteering for is nothing more or less than committing an assassination. Some soldiers have a real problem with that- especially when they have to see their eyes and put the dot on the target's forehead. So my question is why are you willing to do this?"

Oakes set his coffee cup down on the table and folded his hands in his lap in a thoughtful gesture, "You know…. I read once an account by a newspaper journalist who had an interview with Hitler back in the thirties- before he came to power in Germany, you know. The point of the account was that the two of them were talking as they walked along the side of a road, and apparently Hitler got so wrapped up in what he was saying that he didn't realize that a car was coming up fast on him from behind. The journalist did realize this and did the right thing by yanking another person out of the path of a reckless driver. Can you imagine what the world would have been like if he hadn't though? Or maybe if he could have seen ten years into the future and gave a little shove instead of a pull? In our profession, Mr. Lilith, we do what we do because we believe that sometimes the taking of a single life can save many in the long run. Personally, I wish it could always be a clear, unambiguous situation like a combatant in war- but if you haven't noticed, it's an imperfect world. Maybe by taking this shot, maybe I help to make the world a little better for my two daughters five or ten years from now."

Lilith looked to Gyle, "And you? For his daughters?"

Gyle shook his head, "I lost most of my family in the Holocaust and the rest in a raid by rogue Zentraedi that hit my home town. I used to do it for revenge."

"But?", Lilith inquired, sensing there was more to the story that Gyle was interested in telling.

"But revenge can't carry you forever. I guess I don't want some kid somewhere having the same thing happen and doing what I do for the reasons I used to do it. How about you?"

"Pardon?"

"Was my question unclear?", Gyle said plainly, "You're sitting here over coffee and melon doing your version of the two minute psych-profile on us. Why are you doing what you do? I can put the dot between a man's eyes, discharge my weapon, and live with it. You're asking others to do it for you. Normally it would be improper to ask, but nothing about this assignment is normal. So, I'm asking."

Lilith considered the question for a moment and the broad range of answers she could provide from blunt honesty to the less than forward and cordial suggestions of what the ASC rifleman could do with himself. The question was valid though, and devoid of any substantial contempt.

"Can we say that several complex attempts have been less than successful and leave it at that? Attempts to do the work quietly and to leave no messy residuals of the _whos_ and _whys_ involved have not come together. Finesse has failed, and there's little chance of getting this done with delicacy. There's a nail to be driven, I just need a hammer."

"Can't say we've ever been called that before.", Oakes said to Gyle, "A hammer."

"Think you can drive a nail for me?", Lilith asked.

Gyle picked up his coffee, "Let's see what you think."

Having been hewn from the wilderness, a relatively unique quality of Brasilia was that it did not take a long time in transit for one to return to the envelopment of wilderness. Wilderness, however, did not suit the purpose of the trip and Lilith had selected a site to the northwest that was something between the wild and the city.

Large fields, formerly industrial agricultural land employed by Brazil for the growing of sugar for conversion into ethanol in the days when the world's largest concerns were the acquisition of sufficient fuels, could be found all over the countryside outside of industrial centers. Some had been reclaimed by industry for their former purpose. Some had been converted for the ever-pressing requirement to grow food for a world population that teetered perpetually on the verge of starvation. Some fields had been reclaimed, or were in the process of reclamation, by undergrowth that in time would become wilderness again.

It was atop a hill at the southeast corner of such a field that Lilith had dropped Oakes and Gyle off nearly an hour before. On a related task she had then taken the land rover that all three had ridden to the location in out along the overgrown service roads to the northwest corner of a parallel and equally derelict field. The work she had gone to do had taken less than two minutes to accomplish in its simplicity, and would not have taken that long had an appropriate location for the work not been elusive. The work had been done though, and by the time she had returned to the site where she had dropped off Oakes and Gyle- they had prepared themselves for the point of the journey.

The subtle but distinguishable characteristics and mannerisms of the two men that had made them stand out in civilian garb now seemed to fall into place like the last piece of a well made puzzle as they had changed into their professional attire. Khakis and polos (now folded and stacked neatly on top of their rucksacks) had given way to field boots and BDUs, standard issue to soldiers in the Army of the Southern Cross. The Chameleon synthetic fabric of their utility shirts and trousers showed a static digital forest print, composed of dark spots in yellow-greens, black, and brown on a base olive drab. At a distance, the busy pattern was designed to distract the human (or _humanoid_ ) eye to allow the wearer to blend into the environment. This was in the fabric's "static" state. The Chameleon fabric was designed to be part of a larger system, and as such the garments could be joined to a photo-sensor linked control system that when activated read the soldier's surroundings and chemically manipulated the individual fibers of the cloth weave accordingly to produce a customized camouflage scheme.

The Chameleon Personal Camouflage System, though innovative and impressive in function, was not the object of Lilith's attention. She had traveled two hours into the boonies for a demonstration of another kind.

On a tarp laid out next to its carrying case rested the principle tool of Gyle's occupation, the M-163R, .50 cal., rail accelerated sniper's rifle system.

As renown in its short operational life to this point as it was brutish-looking, Lilith was aware that it was a system used by both the RDF-Army as well as the ASC- but this was her first time actually seeing the weapon.

Much of the weapon's bulk was accounted for in the barrel jacket containing the right-twist magnetic accelerator rails that extended nearly to the muzzle of the 104cm, smooth-bore barrel. Without a grain of conventional propellant required, the M-163R could throw variants of its 12.7x115mm round downrange at over twice the muzzle velocity of older systems.

A compact cooling unit for the accelerator rails and a robust recoil absorption system were incorporated as unobtrusively and ergonomically as could be engineered into the weapon- but still contributed to its noticeable mass.

A bipod affixed to the barrel, a precision 36x optical riflescope, and an independent power pack the size of a 6-pack of beer that provided for the considerable electricity needs of the rifle through a short cable rounded out the basic components of the M-163R and explained in Lilith's mind the criticisms she had heard from some that the weapon was too cumbersome.

Admittedly not ideal for every mission of the modern sniper, the M-163R's unequalled range and already legendary stopping power did justify its existence in the majority of minds within the sniper community.

"All set?", Lilith asked as Gyle snapped the last of ten slugs into a box clip.

"I don't know, are you ready for a show?", Gyle replied.

"That's what I'm here for.", Lilith said.

From the case of rounds from which he had loaded the rifle's clip, Gyle removed a single slug and tossed it to Lilith who snatched it easily in its arcing descent through the air.

The bullet was heavier than the agent had expected and felt as though it would do damage with an arm's throw alone.

"That's the anti-material round.", Gyle explained, "It's a tungsten core with a softer steel outer jacket. Kinetic impact energy on that puppy is about three times that of the round out of the old Barrett. ..It puts things _down._ "

Without additional endorsement, Gyle settled onto his belly behind the rifle and placed the butt of the stock carefully to his shoulder. Lilith knew from brief, long-rifle training that she herself had received that precision shooting over great ranges involved practice not only in discharging a weapon, but proper positioning of both the weapon and body. Consistency plus practice equaled accuracy was the reigning axiom Lilith remembered in paraphrase.

Gyle adjusted his body and positioning until he achieved the exact union with his weapon he sought.

Sergeant Oakes knelt at a tripod he had set up just to the left and slightly to the rear of where Gyle lay in his ready position. Atop the tripod was his spotter's scope, through which he would call shots for Gyle and direct his fire. Lilith had sometimes found it puzzling that in military sniper teams the spotter was the senior and more experienced of the pair and was charged with directing the engagement. It had been explained to her that the teams did not look at it that way as they saw themselves and their equipment as being components in a _sniper weapon system_ , making all pieces equally important and thus negating any elements of prestige or superiority in who actually directed the action. Hearing this, Lilith had never quite believed it, but in meeting Oakes and Gyle, and seeing their interaction- the theory was gaining substance.

Oakes settled in behind his scope and peered through the precision optical device.

"Eyes on target. Spotter ready.", Oakes said.

Gyle reached carefully with his left hand to flip up the dust cover on his riflescope's objective lens.

"Eyes on target."

"Power up, lock and load.", Oakes directed.

Gyle flipped a thumb switch on the rifle's grip and then inserted the box clip into rifle's side loading breech. With the rifle butt never leaving its carefully placed position at his shoulder, Gyle actioned the manual bolt handle on the rifle's right side above the grip. A solid, metallic click indicated that the first round was chambered.

"Power on, locked and loaded."

Through his riflescope, Gyle peered at the target Lilith had erected for him. A rusted manhole cover was propped against a tree stump and secured in the upright position with bailing wire that Lilith had bound around the nub of the fallen tree. A dot bracketed by fine vertical and horizontal crosshairs served as the shooter's aiming point.

Oakes adjusted his spotter's scope, using the laser range finder on the target.

"Range, one-eight-seven-two meters. Left wind at two."

There were conversion tables for Gyle's rifle scope to adjust for range and windage, but he knew them by memory and made adjustments to the scope's knobs and lenses accordingly. When he was finished, Gyle centered the dot on the manhole cover that was nearly two kilometers away. With his scope adjusted, and barring a sudden shift in wind direction or speed, Gyle knew the dot marked the exact point the round would find.

"Shooter ready."

"Shoot", Oakes said calmly.

Lilith raised a large pair of nautical binoculars that allowed her to make out the manhole cover as a spot that was just slightly darker in its rust color than the bare earth of the hill behind it. She watched, and over the chirping of nearby birds and the soft murmur of wind through grass she could hear Gyle exhaling.

An explosion that sounded as though it should have come from the guns of a battleship shocked Lilith's eardrums as the rifle round split the air at supersonic velocity. In flinching, she had nearly lost the manhole lid, but recovered it in her field of view just in time to see what she had come to witness.

The air visibly rippled in the instant before the round easily pierced the rusted steel lid beneath a cloud of orange sparks.

"High left of center.", Oakes reported to his shooter.

"Got it.", Gyle said, examining his own work through his scope. He adjusted a knob on his scope and said, "Shooter ready."

"Shoot."

The M-163R roared again and after a moment, Lilith witnessed a second burst of orange sparks through her binoculars.

"Dead center.", Oakes announced, a controlled hint of pride in his tone.

"Shooter ready."

"Shoot."

Another ear stunning blast followed, and a moment later another hole was punched through the manhole cover, this time fracturing the steel disc into two distinct pieces, one of which rolled away from the other portion still secured to the stump.

"Outstanding.", Lilith said, clearly impressed, "Outstanding."

Gyle lowered the rifle butt from his shoulder and rested it on the tarp as gently as if he were laying an infant in its crib.

The shooter raised himself up off the tarp, severing the near symbiotic connection with his weapon. The corporal brushed his BDUs clean and stood with arms crossed before Lilith.

"Well, Mr. Lilith?", Oakes said, joining his shooter and speaking for both with such ease of tone that Lilith knew he _was_ indeed, "We've shown you ours. So unless you've tied us on to shoot manhole lids, I'd say it's fair to ask you to show us yours. Who's the mark?"

"A Zentraedi.", Lilith said without reservation or any more feeling than if she had just told them they would be obliterating more manhole covers, "An organizer inside of the community in the region by the name of Yeshta. Let's not discuss it here though, back in the city I have all the materials you could possibly need."

Oakes nodded, "Okay then. Give us ten minutes to pack up shop here and we'll go back and have a read."

 **The Caribbean Sea**

"Six across: a typical example or archetype. Eight letters."

Winters turned the clue from Piglet's crossword puzzle over in his head only to feel it rattle about between the inside of his skull and the dull mass that his brain had become. The moderately interesting topography of Texas had fallen away some time ago near old Galveston into the Gulf of Mexico, and only an imaginary line on an electronic map had marked passage into the Caribbean since. The world was divided into two shades of uniform blue, a lighter around and above, and the darker below.

"Vanna, can I buy a vowel?", Dalton asked.

"Thirteen down puts an _a_ into the second box.", Piglet replied.

"Eight letters…", Dalton thought aloud, "C'mon, guys- this is going to be killing me all the way to Brazil if we don't get it."

Winters twisted his torso in his seat as much as the harness straps would allow to look up and back into the dorsal guarding position that B Flisht, 1st Section- Dalton's command- was flying. There the four Valkyries seemed to hover over and were dwarfed by the enormous bulk of the modified Zentraedi transport pod they were escorting. The contrast in size between the four cargo transports and the fighters guarding them made Winters suddenly think of the image of water buffalo and the omnipresent swarm of flies that could be found hovering about them.

Winters' initial thought of giving Dalton a discouraging look was proving to be impractical between the distance and position of the XO's fighter. With further thought, Winters also accepted that it was probably more his restlessness than Piglet's insistence on in-flight preoccupations that was irritating him. He'd let it go.

" _Paradigm_.", came the response from Capt. Julius "Blitz" Rechtberg of Winters' own flight and section. The pilot's accent, Bavarian dulled somewhat in English by years outside of EUCOM and the company of his German-speaking countrymen, still was distinguishable and enough to set Winters off.

" _What the bloody hell is the world coming to?_ ", the CO growled, feeling more than ever the need to stretch out of the confines of the cockpit and have a drink, "All the native speakers of His Majesty's English, and the Jerry's giving the answers to the damn crossword puzzle?"

From Dalton's flight and section, Capt. Hamilton "Piglet" Vought was quick to attempt to mend fences and appease, "I've got pocket Trivial Pursuit too."

Capt. Richard "Pinball" Ott from Winters 2nd Section cut in quickly, "Like hell. That game goes up with B Flight every time you fly the Outlands. The odds are skewed- you know all the answers."

"A crossword is fine.", Dalton said, defusing the situation, "Besides, who's keeping score?"

"That would be me.", Vincenz said to be joined by three or four other voices of similar sentiment.  
"Well, the thing is", explained Capt. Israel "Isn't" Cohen, "he'll pull ahead for a little while, but it's always a different story at the finish line- it's a German thing."

To anyone who had spent more than twenty minutes in a room with Cohen and Rechtberg, the banter between them was known to be benign completely- but both men found some perverse glee in trying to convince the world that it was anything but.

"It's been almost eighty years-.", Rechtberg said with particular whimsy, "We're nothing if not persistent."

"Bring it, bubba, just bring it.", Cohen said flatly.

Rechtberg continued, "I'm just saying, eventually it's us or the Zentraedi. With us at least, you know there will be beer."

"I vote for the Germans then.", Alan "Gecko" Home said.

"If we could have a break from the peanut gallery, the master race, and the tribe, we've got half a puzzle to finish here.", Piglet said, trying to regain control.

"How about radio silence?', Winters countered, "Could I use a CO's influence to get that?"

"No.", came a single response echoed by fourteen others.

Winters shook his head, "Take a note Freddy- discuss discipline in the ranks at the next squadron stand-up."

"Roger that, sir."

"I'll bring the beer.", offered Rechtberg.

"Knight Hawk Leader, this is Sea Breeze. How do you copy?"

Winters had spoken to the AWACS controllers only once at the transition point where Knight Hawk Squadron had come under their command and control.

"Reading you five by five, Sea Breeze. Are we giving you a headache yet?"

"Nearly, Knight Hawk. Business though, there's traffic on a direct intercept course with you."

"Copy that.", Winters said reaching out to the center MFD in his console and expanding the scale on his radar display until the coast of Venezuela came into the screen. Though substantial, the coast was out of the Valkyrie's own radar range and the data feed was coming from the AWACS's radar via Info-link.

"Hello there.", Winters said spotting a tightly clustered group of dots moving north by west from the coast, "Who are you?"

Winters tapped the screen at the center of the group and the combat computer responded by bringing up IFF information on the console's right MFD.

"We're showing ASC Phantoms.", Sea Breeze said as the same information came up on Winters IFF output, "And they're moving. They just pushed it up to seventeen hundred knots and are climbing to Angels sixty."

"I'm still hung over, Sea Breeze, but this wasn't part of the plan, was it?"

"That's a negative, One."

"I hate improvising…", Winters muttered, "Sea Breeze, report all other contacts in your range."

"We have multiple civilians north of my position and a squadron of Adventurer IIs giving valid RDF squawk southbound from the Florida pan handle to Cuba. Other than that, the board is clear."

"All the same-.", Winters thought aloud, "Buster, leave your second section in the rear to guard Chuck Wagon. Everyone else, break to loose deuce, ten klik intervals. Sea Breeze, be a chap and vector us in, would you?"

"Copy that, Knight Hawk One. Climb to angels eight zero and take on a heading of one-six-nine. Be advised, we're detecting ground based radar activity."

Winters eased the throttles of his fighter forward enough to break away from the transports and the rest of his squadron. Vincenz stayed loosely attached to his right wing and followed him into the modest climb toward eighty-thousand feet.

"Ground control-.", Winters muttered as sixty-five thousand feet dropped away for seventy. Glancing over his shoulder the transports had lost their colossal appearance and were simply grey discs against a broad field of blue. The Valkyries not detaching to become part of the advanced guard were now little more than specks by comparison..

"That means we're not talking about a bunch of buckaroos hot dogging it, boss.", Vincenz speculated with confidence, "I don't like this."

"Vice might have a point on this one, Jack.", came Dalton's support of the other pilot, "We've got authority to pull the plug if this gets dicey."

"Not just yet, Freddy.", Winters said, "We're all just flying the friendly skies here. Besides, they're between me and three days on the beach, and I promised Rio a parrot."

"Well, as long as it's for a good cause."

"Knight Hawk Flight, Sea Breeze. Boogey flight on constant bearing and heading. Range is now three hundred kilometers, twenty-six hundred knots closure at angels six-eight."

Winters monitored the developing situation on his radar screen. His fighter's radar was now tracking the targets independent of the AWACS. Had the weapons he was carrying had the range, he would have been fully capable of knocking down the ASC squadron well before they were even within range to use their own weapons. The situation was unclear though- their intentions uncertain, and Winters lacked the long range weapons to unilaterally decide an engagement. Even if he had, he lacked the authorization to use them.

"Two hundred kliks and dropping, Jack.", Dalton pointed out, "What's the play?"

"I suppose we're on their doorstep, so we should knock.", Winters said. He reached over to the left MFD and toggled through the functions to his fighter's communications settings. A tap of the screen switched his radio frequency to the established ASC general purpose frequency. Someone, hopefully the ASC flight commander or at the very least his ground-based superiors would be listening.

"Attention, Phantom squadron on my twelve o'clock-. This is Knight Hawk Leader under joint escort orders to Southern Cross station Salvador De Norte. State your intentions."

Winters paused for a response and received only the hum of an open channel.

"A hundred and twenty-five kliks, Jack.", Dalton warned.

Winters studied the squadron of Phantoms on his central MFD. They were still clustered, though not as tightly as before. Though a full squadron of sixteen against the dozen that Winters had brought forward, the ASC flight leader was putting himself at a tactical disadvantage by grouping so tightly- putting as it were, all of his eggs in a single basket. The twelve Valkyries, even if they were to take the Phantoms head-on, could by virtue of their loose formation and intervals envelope the Phantoms from either flank as well as from above- giving them the choice of position from which to use the sharp end of the stick.

"The buggers are fucking with us."

"Eighty kliks.", Dalton said, reporting the range that Winters was intently watching evaporate, "What's the call?"

"I'm not a bloody bottom.", Winters said, getting a deep gut feeling for what was unfolding, "We can show a little teeth without biting. Freddy, keep your flight up above their ceiling. We're going to drop to their level, so to speak, and scatter them. Everyone hear this clearly- no shooting unless they start it. We'll take them head on and break them up. If they decide to knife dance with us, keep the pressure on and let them burn down their petrol. Sea Breeze, help us stir up the nest. Light them up and we'll lock on by InfoLink."

"Copy that, Knight Hawk Leader. Targets are illuminating- now."

Through his Heads-Up Display, Winters saw a cluster of target indicator boxes appear. The AWACS, Sea Breeze, was painting the Phantoms with the radar energy needed for the Valkyries' missiles to identify and lock on to the ASC aircraft. With their combat computers networked through InfoLink, the pilots were able to select targets without unnecessary redundancy and with Sea Breeze's radar doing the active work, the Phantoms were unable to distinguish which Valkyrie was a direct threat to them.

"Forty kliks.", Dalton said, "Tally-ho! Eyes on target at twelve o'clock, level with you Jack."

Winters could now make out the grey flecks that were the ASC Phantoms against the backdrop of blue sky forty kilometers away.

"I've got them, Buster.", Winters replied, "Twelve o'clock level. Keep the lid on the pot until we call for you."

"Got it, I cover, you stew."

"Knight Hawk Leader, Sea Breeze. Boogey flight is jinking and jamming. We've got their attention."

"Keep them lit, Sea Breeze, keep them lit."

The scale on Winters' radar display decreased at the computer's command to provide the pilot with the best representation of the developing engagement. Winters barely noticed as his eyes could now do all the work required. The flecks of grey were taking shape now- ASC Phantom fighters with their long, gracefully curving bodies that always reminded Winters for some reason of a woodpecker's beak. A single, high tail swept at the same angle as the wings that emerged from near the rear of the fuselage gave the fighters the appearance of speed and lethality even at rest. In the air, and in an interceptor role, the appearance was justified. At dog fighting, they had several disadvantages to the Valkyrie- or so Winters was told. True or not, the pilot had no overwhelming desire to find out today.

Between breaths of the pure oxygen that was now flowing through his mask, Winters found that the tight knot in his belly had made its appearance on cue. The tingling of the skin beneath fine dots of cold sweat followed as did the soft but distinguishable tune of _Gary Owen_ on his lips.

"Boogeys passing left!", Vice called as blurs of grey shot by like dull cannon tracers to the port of the Valkyrie flight.

The bounce of turbulence from their passage jogged Winters into extreme focus.

"Break and pursue!"

Winters dropped his throttles back and gradually unswept his fighter's wings, bleeding off speed rapidly until he could afford a turn without risking a black-out. The negative G-forces of deceleration that had pushed him firmly forward into his harness straps reversed and crushed him into his seat as the horizon rolled onto its side and _Marilyn_ came around in a banking turn. The air bladders in the legs and lower abdomen of Winters' G-suit inflated to keep the blood from pooling in his feet as the air mask forced air into his lungs. Light-headedness was starting to set in when Winters' turn brought the squadron of Phantoms into view again. They were no longer level with Winters but diving rapidly toward the sea below.

"Bastards are going for the deck now.", Winters muttered, "They want the thicker air to even the odds."

"We can just stay up here and keep them lit.", Dalton suggested.

Winters was already leading the squadron into a steep dive after the escaping ASC fighters as he replied, "No, no, no… If there was going to be shooting, it would have happened. They're calling us out to play. Let's play. Keep a watch over us, Freddy, and nab any of them that slip out of the fray."

"Will do. Play nice with the other kids- we're all friends."

"Nice as a I always do."

Winters could hear Dalton say beneath his breath, " _Oh shit…_ ", and perhaps not without warrant.

The Phantom squadron scattered into pairs as they dove through twenty-thousand feet and into the denser air that would give their designs, primarily intended for speed, better and more equitable footing in maneuverability with the pursuing Valkyries that were rapidly overtaking them.

A quick glance to starboard found Vice over Winters' wing where he was supposed to be. Vincenz was getting his blood up- something that didn't require much in the air, Winters had found. His aggressive temperament matched Winters' own, making him a good wingman, but the squadron commander sometimes wished the other pilot would levy instinct with more cold tactical thought.

"One o'clock, that pair breaking right- see them?"

"On it."

"They'll try to break vertical to shake us with short climbs.", Winters speculated, knowing the Phantom's performance characteristics and their advantages over his Valkyrie, "If they pop up, catch them and try to keep them in the climb- they'll bleed off power quickly."

"Read the same briefs as you, Jack.", Vice said, sounding more intense in thought than annoyed.

Winters found himself level at twelve thousand feet keeping just inside the right turn of the two Phantoms he intended to intercept. Their posture and attitude felt almost casual to Winters as he closed on an inner track, but he could also feel himself being watched. His Valkyrie was heavy with munitions and under the yoke of drag against those same weapons on his hard point pylons. They wanted him in close, in the dense air where he couldn't employ the power of his engines against them for fear of overstressing his Valkyrie's airframe. As well-read as Winters was on the Phantom, so too were these Phantom pilots showing they were well-read in Valkyries.

Knight Hawk Squadron was tying on in duels of pairs all around, filling the air with twirling and weaving aircraft as the airways filled with the increasingly frenzied communications of the bloodless combat.

"Maverick, watch your six! Two closing from your eight!"

"Can you scrape `em off, Dodger?"

"Blitz, he went high! I lost him in the sun! You got him?"

"Negative, they'll be on you in six seconds. Cut Cisco to clear your tail!"

"Skinny, I've got your boogey, but he's going to slip me!- The angle is all wrong, _sheiza!_ He's gone and I've a pair closing on your four o'clock!"

"Split off, Cisco and see if they follow!"

"No dice on this pair, Blitz-. Crowd that pair off my four and I'll join up with you! I'm disengaging, _damnit!_ "

"Breaking! And- - - yeah, they're on me now! _Great…_ "

"Can we shoot these bastards or what?"

"Negative, hold your fire! And damnit, where the holy hell is Jack and Vice?"

"West, right off your wing."

"He's got company."

"He sees that."

"No, the _other_ company!"

Winters leveled his fighter out of a purposeful right barrel roll that brought the trailing Phantom of the pair that he and Vice had been running down into his ideal killing zone, ahead and slightly below. The ASC pilots had been weaving and scissoring to bleed off speed and it was unclear to Winters whether they would turn and fight or continue to give him their tails.

Mention of he and Vice from another of his pilots caused Winters to suddenly twist in his seat to look to his rear through the bracket of his rudders. The sky was clear, but he had the feeling of the pigeon in the hawk's eyes.

"Vice, check our six! Look low!"

Vice's fighter nosed up abruptly, giving him a better backwards vantage of the sea.

"Shit!"

The single expletive spoke volumes to Winters who hauled the control stick back to his groin and opened the throttles of his Valkyrie. The world around Winters filled with sky as the heavy kick of the engines landed in the small of his back and he was hurled into a near vertical climb.

Winters' eyes left the sky for just long enough to assess the situation through the electronic eyes of radar. His screen showed the two fast moving blips, the Phantoms Vice had seen closing on them, merge with and then pass ahead of the screen's centerpoint icon that represented his fighter.

"Crafty bastards!", Winters spat, more embarrassed at having been caught off guard than upset by the fact that had this been something other than apparently bravado-driven mock combat, he would have likely been dead already.

Winters found the manual controls for his engines' thrust vectoring controls on the throttles with his thumb and pitched them down sharply. _Marilyn_ bucked wildly as a horse in need of breaking as the sudden directional change in thrust threw the nose down, past level pitch, and into a dive. The bastardization of the "cobra strike" brought Winters into a steep angle of attack above and behind the two Phantoms who had just crossed beneath him.

"Jack, those first two are circling back-.", warned Vice, acting as Winters' eyes on the world outside of his area of focus, "We're gonna be in a world of hurt in about fifteen seconds."

"It'll take me ten to peel the paint off this showboat.", Winters replied as the wingman of the pair whom he pursued broke with his leader to clear his tail. Winters was unimpressed- there had been no shooting so far. If it was the Southern Cross's intention to test Knight Hawk Squadron's nerves, Winters was now fast set to turn the tables, and this was the opportunity. The Phantom Winters tailed had dropped below three thousand feet at just over six hundred knots and was building speed. Winters could make out the fine texture of waves including the snowy specks of white caps as he followed to the deck.

"Jack, Preacher and I are on our way down.", Dalton said from somewhere high above, his voice having an edge of justifiable fear to it, "You two aren't going to hold off four."

"Just want to take one swimming.", Winters thought aloud as he joined the Phantom in level flight with scarcely three hundred feet between his fighter's belly and the wave tops.

Winters switched his weapon selector to the position for his fighter's twin laser cannons. The gun reticule appeared within his visor and though the master weapons safety was still on, rendering the fighter's weapon systems "safe", Winters enjoyed knowing that his guns were tracking the reticule across the Phantom's tail.

"You and me and the devil makes three, you bastard- _now twitch_."

Almost as if by command, the Phantom wiggled its wings, rolling port to starboard and then back several times before easing into a gradual climb and cutting back on the power.

"Knight Hawk Leader", came an unfamiliar voice, "this is Lieutenant Colonel Warren Mathias commanding Cavalier Squadron. Disengage and form up on me. We have orders to escort you through Southern Cross airspace."

Winters found himself momentarily at a loss for words at the attitude of the other squadron leader, which struck him as the squadron's name- _cavalier_.

"Cavalier Leader, this is Lieutenant Colonel Winters, RDF-AF. What the bloody hell are you and your men at with this stunt? Has SOP for escort procedures changed that radically in the ASC manual?"

Mathias's laugh could have qualified as impish, had it not been for the moderate depth of the man's voice that rang of an American accent- a weathered Northeastern Yankee accent that Winters could not quite place. It was the laugh that was most disquieting though as it was the laugh of a man who had become too comfortable with death to give it much more than its minimal, obligatory regard.

Winters had laughed that way too on occasion.

"Didn't think we'd spook you like that, Colonel- my apologies.", Mathias said, not quite sounding convincing in his apology, "Outside of training, we don't get to mix it up in the air too much. RDF is about as close to hostiles as we seem to get around here."

"Mixing it up with a full, live load on the rails isn't quite my idea of a safe exercise, Colonel.", Winters said as he eased up alongside the Phantom with the two fighters passed ten thousand feet ascending, "I intend to have a chat with your CO about this. If you're lucky, _my_ CO will stay out of it. He's known to be irascible- believe me, _I know_."

"Your boss too, eh?", Mathias asked- his tone still nonchalant, "And I thought they'd broken the mold."

Winters felt the first tremors of the shakes in his left hand as the fingers began to tap the throttles in twitches beyond his ability to control.

"Knight Hawk Squadron, form on me.", Winters ordered, "Scooter, bring Chuck Wagon flight in on our six. Sea Breeze, thanks for your guidance- it's been surreal. We're transferring C2 to ASC ground."

"Understatement of the decade, Knight Hawk Leader. Sea Breeze, signing off."

 **A.R.M.D. II Space Station "Archer 42"**

Lieutenant Commander Queffle stepped through the doorway from the B Corridor into "The Nest"- the handle lovingly hung upon the pilots' berthing area by the members of Banshee Squadron. A small lounge area half the size of any two-bedroom apartment's living room with two surprisingly comfortable, military mass-procured couches in a stained and cigarette burned tope, a flat screen viewing monitor tied into the station's limited entertainment channels, and a perpetually run coffee machine lay just inside. These meager luxuries had been afforded to the pilots in the A.R.M.D. II's design, despite the constraints of physical space.

Directly off the lounge branched three short halls that to either side had quarters for the pilots who shared accommodations two per room. It was down the left of the three halls that Queffle went, seeing one of the Alpha Veritech pilots emerge from the shower room with a towel tied around his midsection.

"Dweedle", Queffle said, addressing the lieutenant by his callsign, "Is Raven around?"

The pilot poked a thumb at the air over his shoulder in the direction of the shower room, "Violating water discipline, boss."

"Thanks.", Queffle said, edging by the pilot as he let himself into his room and shut the door behind.

The air in the hall was moist and warm from the steam of three-stall shower room, and left droplets of condensation on the metal and plastics of ceiling pipes, wire housing, and interior form molds. With a single shower room for the entire berthing cluster, speaking from the point of regulations, Queffle should not have encountered a male officer leaving the showers while it was occupied by a female officer. The pilots though, for that matter the whole crew of Archer 42, were comfortable and respectful enough of one another regardless of gender to allow the CO to be a little lax and occasionally turn a blind eye to violations of the letter of the law. With space at a minimum, people had to learn to cohabitate to the fullest, reasonable extent. "Fraternization", a clever euphemism Queffle had always thought for the real issue, was extremely rare to his knowledge, and what he didn't know was fine with him.

Queffle knocked on the shower room door.

"Raven- you decent?"

Lieutenant Kroft's voice replied from inside, "Never decent, but the curtain's drawn. Commander?"

Queffle opened the spring-loaded, sliding door a crack and wedged his foot in to be able to speak to be heard without shouting.

"Thought you'd want to hear this, Raven.", Queffle said, detecting the signs of movement behind one of the stall's drawn curtains, "News on your Transport Pod."

"Did someone see him splash?", the pilot asked, her tone eager but moderated.

"We handed the track off to RDF Approach Control, and they tracked him down into the area of northern Brazil. The ASC regional command picked up the track when Approach Control handed it off to them, but they dropped the ball when he dropped below sixty-thousand feet… Something about the local area radars being down for maintenance or something."

The curtain drew back far enough for Kroft to poke her head out, her thick, black hair matted back in a single mass against her pale skin, "You're twisting my tit, right?- No one saw him splash?"

"No one can confirm he splashed.", Queffle corrected, "But his flight track was all over the place on the way down through the atmosphere, I'm told. You don't go screaming into the Amazon like that and walk away from it."

"But no one can confirm it.", Kroft said, her head disappearing behind the curtain again.

"No, no one can confirm it."

"Ah.", Kroft said, clearly annoyed. The stream of water from the shower stopped and Queffle leaned back from the crack in the door to allow Kroft the privacy to get out of the shower.

"So, bottom line is we can credit you with one _damaged_ \- but not killed. Sorry, Raven. That's the best I can do."

Kroft's fingers curled around the edge of the door and pulled it aside along its track. Wrapped in a towel from the armpits to the mid-thigh, Kroft eased by Queffle in the narrow passage in a haze of steam that smelled as she did of gender-neutral, general purpose liquid soap, and standard issue "Shampoo #2- With Hair Conditioner".

"Any word on my transfer request?"

Queffle followed Kroft to her door, to the left and nearest to the cluster's lounge.

"No, not yet. We only submitted it a week ago, though."

"We submitted the _third_ a week ago.", Kroft reminded him, "Any reason to think I'll have better luck this time?"

Queffle shrugged with a non-committal hum, " _Mmm_ , maybe this is the one. You've got a clean- well, _fairly_ clean jacket, a good flight record plus one Zentraedi craft damaged, and valid personal reasons to request transfer to Schiaparelli. The problem is you're also a squadron leader, and those are a valuable commodity that Fleet doesn't like flipping around."

"Can't pull any strings for me?"

Queffle laughed, "Are you kidding? I think I used all of my favors to get myself this lovely and scenic assignment. Sorry, Raven- I don't pull as much weight with the brass as you think."

Kroft looked somewhat deflated, "Well, thanks anyway, boss."

Queffle patted her on the shoulder and then drew away into the lounge headed for the cluster door, "I'll see what I can do. This place isn't so bad though-. If you keep saying it, you might even convince yourself that you like it."

"Not as much as I like my family.", Kroft countered.

"Oh yeah-.", Queffle said, pausing and half-turning, "That reminds me. We have some slack in transmission bandwidth. Enough for a few minutes of personal communications. I saw your name on the request list and figured, by way of compensation for your Zentraedi Transport debacle-. Anyway, Communications should be buzzing you in a couple of minutes."

Kroft's face brightened with a rise of spirit instantly, "Thanks, Commander- you're the best."

"I still carry weight on my own station, Lieutenant.", Queffle said, before the buzz of the phone within Kroft's room sounded, "I think that's for you."

Kroft let the door to the "cell" slide home and lock with a click, cutting off the outside world. Slapstick, a gaunt and physically awkward pilot named McEwan with whom she shared the small living space was flying combat air patrol, so she had the privacy to speak freely. Sitting in the chair at the small computer workstation situated between the room's two wardrobes and opposite the bunks built into the wall, Kroft felt a moment of indignation thinking that Queffle could have given her a little more notice to look presentable. The moment subsided quickly though as she remembered how rare personal communications between off-world posts were, and that the privilege was a true favor.

Kroft snatched the phone out of the secure hold of the cradle as she turned on the workstation's monitor and flipped up the privacy cap on the small camera lens built into the top of the frame.

"Kroft."

"Lieutenant, Communications, ma'am. We've got a com-link established for you with Lieutenant Commander Kevin Kroft, Schiaparelli Base."

"I'll take it here, thanks."

"Aye, ma'am. You're slotted for five minutes, ma'am.", the communications tech informed her, "Coming on, now."

The monitor flickered for a moment and then was replaced by the image of her husband, Kevin, from the waist up. He sat at a station similar to the one Amanda sat at, only his was on Schiaparelli Base, Mars- millions of kilometers away. The image was grainy because of the quality of the cameras involved, but the hyperspace communications link between two relatively proximal points kept the transmission lag time to a barely noticeable minimum.

Kevin was in his khakis and not his utility uniform, indicating to Amanda that he too had been caught by surprise by the opportunity to call and had probably been in a command staff meeting. He had managed what Amanda had most hoped for, rounding up the children.

Meagan, an active four years old (four and three quarters if you asked the girl), wriggled in her father's grip on his lap as he talked off-screen.

"-You're gonna miss your mom!", Kevin said to Martin, seven, Amanda speculated. Kevin realized he was on and beamed the broad smile that had captured Amanda years before, "Hi hon!.."

Meagan waved and flashed a toothy grin that would probably have to be fixed with braces one day, "Hi Mommy!"

"Hi sweetie!", Kroft said, clapping the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other rapidly, the way a little girl would at seeing her new pink bike with flowing tassels on the handles, "And, where's my big boy?"

Kevin's arm reached out of the screen to draw his son into the frame. Thin, and with his father's red hair, Martin could have been the child from the pictures of Kevin at that age that Amanda had seen.

"Hi mom.", the boy said in the tone reserved for sons who are called a "big boy" by their mothers.

Schiaparelli Base, named for the 19th century astronomer and discover of the Martian "canals", Giovanni Virginio Schiaparelli, was not unusual for one of the two Mars, and three Moon bases in having children with a posted service member. The REF preferred for dependents, particularly children, to remain on Earth with a non-military spouse or family member. The service did recognize however that in the post-Holocaust world, it was possible if not likely that there was no such family to speak of. Where a parent could not provide a child with alternative accommodations with family, the service often made its best effort to post that parent, or in the case of married service couples, at least one spouse, in a billet on Earth. In rare occasions, because of the occupational specialties of the parents, this was not possible. In those cases, and with a mountain of paperwork, dependents could be afforded space on the larger off-world posts, and even on very rare occasions aboard the larger of the REF warships. In an imperfect world where death had proven its ability to strike broadly and deeply into civilian areas once deemed "safe"- it was the best solution available.

"I think you've both gotten bigger since I saw you last!", Amanda said in true and not a mother's feigned wonder as her son was standing to her husband's seated shoulder level, and their little girl nearly filled his lap, "Your dad must be feeding you too well!"

"And check this out-.", Kevin said, nudging his son, "Show your mom."

"What?", asked the boy, twisting his body and looking up in a way that only a seven year-old's spine would permit.

"What do you mean, _what_ , doofus? Your tooth."

" _Oh!_ ", Martin exclaimed and then exposed his teeth to his mother who found one of the top incisors to be missing.

Amanda's heart leapt in the panic of a mother who had missed a monumental moment in her child's life, "When did that happen?!"

"A day or two ago.", Kevin said, "You didn't get the email?"

"No, coms must be slow on the personal traffic pushes.", Amanda said, quickly running a finger under each eye and finding it wet.

"He started a bar fight- like his mom.", Kevin said.

"No he didn't!", Meagan protested with a four year-old's outrage at a lie against her big brother, "The tooth fairy took it."

"That's right.", Kevin said, "And they're both doing well at school."

"Show Mommy my picture!", Meagan exclaimed gleefully, clearly having reached the point in the conversation she had been waiting for.

"Show me.", Amanda said as Kevin leaned in toward the camera on his side of the channel and returned with a piece of paper in his hand.

"Show Mommy.", he said, handing the paper to his daughter who turned it to face Amanda, "Tell Mommy what the teacher had you do."

"She told us to draw something our mommy or daddy did- see? I drew you in your plane."

The drawing had a figure identifiable as Amanda only by its straight, black crayon lines of hair, jutting out of a plane that resembled three roughly hewn triangles that trailed a vapor tail of red curly-cues.

"And we keep that right on the refrigerator.", Kevin said, "She drew you, Amanda, I guess engineers aren't as exciting as pilots."

"Oh, stop.", Amanda laughed, "That's very pretty, Meagan, you keep that for me for when I see you."

The little girl's eyes brightened as she zeroed in on the critical portion of her mother's words, "When are you coming here, Mommy? It would be better with you here. That would make me happy."

Amanda's chest tightened, squeezing her heart up into her throat to just below her Adam's apple, "Me too honey. It will be soon- I promise."

" _Ooooo-kaaaay_.", Meagan said in the four-year old's way that either by nature or design always sounded to a mother like,- _If you really loved me you'd make it happen now._

Kevin lifted his daughter off his lap and set her on her own two feet, saying to both Meagan and her brother, "Tell your mom that you love her and then go clean up for supper- it's pizza night, so we want to be early."

Both children looked out from the monitor, distracted on their side of the transmission from the potential trauma of losing their brief contact with their mother by pizza night in an REF base mess hall,

"Love you, Mommy!", cane through in a mingling of both voices before the inevitable foot race to the bathroom ensued.

"I love you too!", Amanda called back, each word incrementally louder than the last as though she was there to physically call after them.

Amanda had to wipe her eyes dry again before she could look at her husband through blurred vision.

"And how are you doing?"

"Missing you, but fine.", Kevin said, and seeing his wife's tears through the grainy image was quick to try to console her, "Hey, hey- come on now, we'll have you here before you know it. I'm in good with the personnel section over here, and we have a half dozen pilot's billets opening in the next month or two. Keep pushing your request from your side, and I'll keep pulling from this one and-."

"I may get to Schiaparelli before Meagan graduates from college.", Amanda huffed, exasperated.

"Well, you won't have to experience all of those angry adolescent years then-.", Kevin suggested jokingly, trying to keep the mood light.

"And everything else.", Amanda said, picking the solid clump of her hair into thick tendrils that she toyed with as she talked.

"We're going to have these kids for a while, Amanda.", Kevin said, "I promise they won't grow up in the next two months."

"I know- I just-."

"You just what?"

"I'm frustrated.", Amanda admitted, "I had a chance to get some real attention and maybe some leverage, and it slipped away. I'm a little pissed, and I don't have anyone to be pissed at."

"And you're frustrated."

"Yeah, we established that, Kevin."

"No, I mean you're _frustrated_.", Kevin said, developing a sly grin that Amanda knew all too well and missed more for its implications.

"Oh, yeah- that too.", she said, finding herself grinning too.

"Really? How much?"

"The fingers on my right hand are always pruned.", said Amanda curtly, "How's that for a hint?"

"Kind of like that video you left for me, eh?"

"I can't believe you talked me into that, Kevin. I'm not forgiving you, you know."

"It wasn't just me-.", Kevin laughed, "It was me and Johnny Walker Black. Besides-."

The monitor flickered and was replaced by a solid blue screen with blocky text letters across the center that read, "LINK TERMINATED".

Kroft's heart sank as she realized that her five minutes had evaporated. It was really the realization that six months had done the same that cut the deepest.

Tomorrow would be a new day though, she resolved as she left her chair and flopped onto her bunk, and one closer to her transfer to Schiaparelli Base. Lying on the single mattress, staring up at the flat underside of her roommate's bunk and the photos of her family that she had taped there, Amanda found her mind edging back to the thoughts of the Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport, and the ASC fumble that had cost her confirmation of the kill. She knew that she would stew on it overnight, so there was no point in fighting it. She could have used the kill, she was certain, as real currency.

"You know I got you, you bastards.", she muttered and tried to think of happier thoughts.

In fifteen minutes her children would be lost in the fleeting glee of pizza. Amanda felt she could use a slice herself- with black olives and extra pepperoni.

 **The Amazon River Basin**

Death wasn't the experience that Moyrt had expected.

Within the darkness there were still tactile sensations- cold first, and then repetitive and seemingly random prods of pain striking with a blunted edge. Then came dulled provocations of the other senses. Within the darkness, there were stirrings of motion and sound. Noises came distorted at first- wavering between the elongated and compressed mimicry of words. The words regained form as the darkness grew to light and Moyrt realized that he had just been at the verge of consciousness, and not dead as he had initially surmised.

"Moyrt-."

The lieutenant felt a hand on the side of his face as warm as the breath that carried the words.

"Moyrt. Stay awake with me."

The warmth was replaced by the sting of a slap administered by the same hand with just enough force to jog the lieutenant's senses.

"Hyra.", Moyrt replied, the other Serhot Ran lieutenant's face coming into focus, hovering above him, "How is it that you didn't become a medic?"

"Your wit is intact- unfortunately.", Hyra said raising Moyrt's head just enough to wedge a bundled mass of cloth beneath it as a pillow.

Moyrt winced as a leaden ball of pain bounced back and forth between his temples and managed to contact every interior point of his skull.

"Lie still.", Hyra instructed with a firmness tempered by concern that only those who knew her would have been able to pick out of her tone, "You don't have any broken bones, but you've got enough lumps and bruises to make up for it. I think you took a few trips around the inside of the compartment when we landed."

"We're landed?"

"More or less-.", Hyra said, her response cut short by something drawing her attention away.

Moyrt's world expanded in a surge as his alien surroundings suddenly became familiar and he recognized the transport's stasis compartment. His world enlarged to include others also, as he sensed the activity of at least three other warriors.

"Lie here.", Hyra told Moyrt, "We have to get the others out of their stasis tubes."

Moyrt didn't respond, but obeyed. His head involuntarily rolled left as Hyra slipped away and in the dim emergency lighting he could make out two warriors' forms laying beside him- equally naked, though still wet with stasis fluid. Moyrt had come to know every warrior in both the security force and the survey team- but he could not recognize the two warriors beside him. Their faces stirred a distant and hazy recognition in Moyrt- the tormenting kind that stayed just outside of grasp. It would come to him, he knew, and settled for watching the two draw shaky breath from air that Moyrt now detected to carry a heavy taint of smoke.

Consciousness started to slip again, and Moyrt was concerned for a fleeting second about Hyra's reaction.

She would cope.

It had not taken Second Lieutenant Edward Whilite, 3rd Platoon, Echo Company, 4th Rangers long in the thick of the Amazon rain forest to gain a sense of what was meant when the jungle was referred to as "a living thing". The six hours that he had spent within it had only increased his understanding.

It had begun with a pre-dawn insertion via zip-line from a Lakota slick. Through the soft green film of night vision, Whilite had watched the jungle swallow whole one member after another of the squad with whom he had shared the slick's transport along the weighted nylon line.

Finally, when his turn had come to swing out on the line and insert, he had gotten the impression that there was a cooperative effort between the chopper and the jungle. The wash of the helicopter's rotor blades seemed to press him down along the smooth textured line that still burned through the lieutenant's utility gloves under his weight and the weight of his gear. At the same time, the jungle seemed to reach up with some invisible force, wanting to drag him in.

The jungle canopy had absorbed him, and the transition into the new world was both stark and complete. The whir of the Lakota's turbine engines and the rhythmic thud of blades slicing the air was muffled to near non-existance as new sounds, jungle sounds replaced them.

The drone of insects and the shrill calls of birds disturbed by the human intrusion into their world filled Whilite's ears as the undergrowth of the forest floor, and then the floor itself met his boots. The Lakota, no more than thirty meters above sounded as though it could have been kilometers away. Three sharp tugs on the line from Whilite was replied to by the line going slack as it was detached from above by the Lakota's crew chief and slithered limply down to earth. The sound of the chopper quickly died away and was gone as Whilite sank to a crouch in the cover of high ferns, gathering the rope and concealing it beneath fallen leaves.

And then he was alone in the wilderness.

Only Whilite was not alone, despite that feeling that had struck him harder than it ever had on many a realistic training exercise. The squad that had gone before him had fanned out into an outward-facing circle of cover, where they crouched with rifles at the ready waiting to move out or fight depending on the situation that greeted them.

Whilite had quickly gotten his bearings and accounted for the squad in its entirety. There were no ready signs that their insertion had been noticed by anyone but the forest creatures, and with no threat it was on to the business of rallying with the rest of 3rd Platoon.

A series of commands made with hand gestures from Whilite to the squad's NCO, Staff Sergeant Byerly had gotten the squad up and moving with equal parts of speed and stealth. Staff Sergeant Fiona Byerly had impressed Whilite the day before with her ease and comfort of command over the NCOs and enlisted personnel in the platoon as she had walked the new lieutenant through. As senior sergeant in the platoon she gave an air of knowledge about everyone below her as she made the introductions for Whilite. Whether it was a question or comment about a professional matter, or just the way she addressed each member of the platoon- it was clear to Whilite that she had come to know each in some way.

The familiarity with her Rangers that Byerly had demonstrated was far from counterproductive, Whilite had found and was continuing to find. They responded to her with an ease that only could come from trust and confidence earned in the field.

Whilite now saw where the trust and confidence came from as she deployed the squad. With a frame that had been transformed by the physical demands on a Ranger in the boonies from naturally slight to a toned, medium build- Byerly rucked every bit as much gear as the men below her and with equal silence. To Whilite, the squad seemed to move through the dense undergrowth like incorporeal beings for their stealth. Byerly had them moving toward the platoon's rallying point so quickly and without need of any input or guidance from Whilite that the lieutenant would have felt displaced if he had not been so focused on keeping up with the squad and maintaining silence in doing so.

The link-up with 3rd Platoon on its way to rally with the rest of Echo Company had happened seamlessly, again under Byerly's direction. In all that he was trying to concentrate on, the lieutenant suspected that he would not have even noticed that their numbers had tripled unless he had been consciously on the look-out for the link.

Navigation to the company rallying point was purely by compass at this point. More than adequately equipped with state-of-the art land navigation equipment, including GPS and personal transponder units that would have allowed any member of the company to locate another through a display on the inside of their helmet visors- these tools were not active. The company's ability to melt without a trace into the operational area was key to the success of their observation and reconnaissance mission. While it was unlikely that rogue Zentraedi would possess the technology required to make the use of navigation or com-linked C2 devices a betrayal of the company's position, it was well known that the Zentraedi were not the only entity that was to be evaded.

As Captain Nguyen and Sergeant Major MacDonald had pointed out to Whilite in the officer's compound of Camp Conrad the day before, the loose alliance between the RDF Army and the Army of the Southern Cross was at best worth only the paper it was written on in the field- and sometimes less. The ASC did possess the technology to track a Ranger company by its radio communications, and it was more than likely that since the helicopter insertion had been monitored by radar, it was also safe to assume that they would be watching and listening. For now, radios and other networked devices would remain off.

Echo Company had been inserted by squad at various points over an area that spanned nearly twenty kilometers. Had the Rangers been deploying in search of a fight, this practice would not have even been considered. The mission was Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol, or LRRP (pronounced as the almost regurgitative sounding "lerp") and benefited from a decentralized insertion. With a rallying point not proximal to any one insertion point, any party interested enough in the movement of helicopters to watch would be hard pressed to link their purposes. This deployment tactic made it at the least unclear as to what size force had been put on the ground, and whether it was a single unit with a single purpose, or multiple missions being carried out simultaneously. The disbursed company would be difficult for a foe to effectively monitor, but for Echo Company the challenge was now first to form up again.

Whilite brushed aside the semi-rigid flap that covered the small LCD screen and control paddle strapped to his forearm. A piece of standard equipment, the unit that was roughly the size of a short paperback novel was linked into the lieutenant's Personal Integrated Combat System, or PICS. In its current mode, the LCD screen displayed Whilite's map position in relation to a projected path and established waypoints- making use of the PICS intertial navigation system to track his progress. His initial "go" point had been established with a final GPS fix at the time of insertion. Since then, the completely passive INS portion of the PICS navigation package had monitored his movements in both compass direction and distance by complex computations made from a ruggedized set of mini-gyroscopes in liquid suspension. The system was rated to develop an accuracy error of two to four percent per hour depending on the level of the wearer's motion and the type of terrain- but it was more than adequate to assure Whilite that he was moving in the right direction.

That small assurance was anything but small to the lieutenant as he pushed well into hour six of the march toward the company rallying point. Though the PICS told him that his platoon had moved just under seven kilometers, it felt like more to Whilite's body and much less to his mind. There was no judging of distance traveled by his surroundings. Whilite could neither see the head of his column nor its rear as the rain forest floor was so dense with growth that his world had shrunk to a sphere of ferns, vines, and smaller broad-leafed trees no more than two to three meters in diameter. Though it was nearly 0900, the sun had not yet climbed to a sufficient height to penetrate the forest canopy- adding to the claustrophobic quality of Whilite's vegetation cell with a clinging murk of twilight. The heat, the renowned and infamous Amazonian heat though, was beginning to build.

A silent ripple of hand gestures ran down the spine of the column from its head.

 _Halt_.

Whilite's right index finger moved from the trigger guard of his rifle onto the trigger itself, as moments stretched like years in waiting for the next signal.

The hand gesture reached PFC Cortez, directly ahead of Whilite, and was passed to the officer with such rapidity that it was nearly a blur. Cortez's face, painted expertly in tiger stripes of olive drab and black, held his eyes like two glowing white orbs with onyx centers. They were alert, but not alarmed. This spoke volumes to Whilite whose mind translated the hand gestures into meaning.

Whilite was being summoned forward.

Traveling forward along the column, Whilite avoided embarrassment to everyone but himself as he nearly tripped on two Rangers under his command who had concealed themselves so flawlessly into their surroundings that the lieutenant had not seen them until his boot had nearly come down on them. Either the two in turn had not noticed or were magnanimous in their forgiveness as both simply nodded at their CO as he passed.

Staff Sergeant Byerly's head surfaced from the dense growth of ferns as Whilite approached, and she gestured him over with a beckoning movement of her hand. Two steps revealed to Whilite that Byerly and another Ranger- Bixby? Was it Bixby? It wasn't crucially important at the moment, but Whilite's mind flew through the faces and associated names he'd been introduced to and tried to match it to the painted face crouched low with Byerly. It would wait.

The important detail was that the two were crouched in a patch of flattened undergrowth that could have been as easily missed as seen if the column's path had been a meter to either the left or the right. A sizable branch, the limb the thickness of Whilite's thigh at the point of separation, of a tropical tree had come down and caused the flattening of the surrounding plants. It extended off into smaller leaf bearing branches that vanished into the tangle of the forest.

The fallen limb was clearly not the object of Byerly, or the PFC's attention. Besinde, and slightly under the tree limb a segment of metal half as long as Whilite was tall lay, embedded partially into the jungle floor. Its larger component of origin was unclear, but it was clearly manufactured with a visible smooth, machine fashioned side laminated with some kind of grey, protective paint coating. Less visible as it was the side mostly dug into the earth, was a jagged edge showing burn marks and the irregular contours of having been blown or torn free from whatever larger entity it was a piece of.

As Whilite took to one knee between the two other Rangers, Byerly nodded at the PFC, saying in a whisper that was slightly louder than a breath, "Found it lying here."

Whilite nodded at the private, "Good work, Bixby."

"Landon, sir."

Whilite felt a sharp stab of embarrassment, "Sorry, Private Landon."

"No sweat, Lieutenant."

Byerly continued, unaffected by and seeming to not have noticed the exchange, "Not sure what it is, Lieutenant- but it didn't grow here, and it hasn't been here long. See the nub of the limb- I figure it knocked it off as it was coming down through there-."

Byerly motioned and Whilite followed to a very slight gap in the forest canopy. The tree through which the breech was formed also showed a second limb hanging by a splintered mass of wood fiber.

"-See", explained Byerly as she placed her gloved hand on the denuded wood of the nub, "it's still green here, and the leaves aren't wilted. I'd say this has been on the ground for about eight, maybe ten hours."

Whilite studied Byerly's face not thirty centimeters away. Sweat from the rising heat had opened her pores somewhat through the heavy, grease based face paint, giving her pale freckles. Her expression and tone was steadfast and certain though, and Whilite had neither a reason nor inclination to second-guess her in the matter.

"Sure, I get it.", Whilite said, "The final jeopardy question is, what the hell is it?"

"Probably ain't human- RDF or ASC.", Landon said.

"I agree, Lieutenant.", Byrerly said, "Out here, all our birds and theirs have a jungle camouflage paint scheme. Whatever it came off of was definitely flying. If we'd lost a bird this close to our LRRP area or insertion point, we'd have heard about it. If the ASC had lost a bird, we'd likely have heard about it too."

"Maybe it wasn't shot down- just damaged.", Whilite suggested.

"Maybe- but you figure we'd have heard about that too.", Byerly said, "Anyway, that looks like solid terrilium- which says Zentraedi to me."

"Zentraedi?"

"Yeah."

"Flying?"

"Yep.", Byerly affirmed.

Whilite nodded, "Okay, I can buy that- only intel says that nothing Zentraedi has flown within a thousand kliks of here in about eight months."

"Just telling you what I see, Lieutenant.", Byerly said.

"Okay.", Whilite agreed, "We're not going to solve the mystery out here, but it's a tid-bit worth passing on. Photograph it, mark it on the map, and we'll let the captain decide what to do with it when we rally."

PFC Landon was already using the digital camera mounted to the side of his helmet to record images of the bit of debris from as many angles as he could manage. Whilite went to his PICS control pad and marked the position for later reference.

"Okay", Whilite resolved, rising from his knee, "We've got another four kliks to go and three hours to do it in. Let's get moving, Staff Sergeant."

"Yes sir.", Byerly complied, making the necessary command gestures to the rear to get the column on its feet again and moving.

Whilite remained in the third position behind Byerly instead of returning further rear. After this episode, he was convinced that she saw things that he was not yet in tune with and he could learn from her. He was aware that the next encounter might not be as benign. Training, all the way back to basic training, had emphasized that the operational environment had an uncompromising demand for keen situational awareness. Whilite found himself wanting a better education, though it was going to come at an accelerated pace.

The dull pain of a mild concussion still came in waves if Lieutenant Moyrt pressed physical activity, and the condition was aggravated by the heat that had continued to climb steadily. There was too much to be done to remain idle though, and far too few Te'Dak Tohl remaining in the party to do it.

Action Commander Kevtok walked briefly the line of bodies that had been laid out on the upturned soil of the jungle floor in the Transport Pod's skidding wake. Thirty-six Te'Dak Tohl, between the survey and the security team had embarked on the modified transport aboard the Robotech Factory. Nine now stood over the bodies of the others.

The dead had known the same last sensation as the living- the groggy, slightly smothering feeling of lapsing into stasis sleep. That had been the last sensation that they would ever know.

Whether it had been from the initial attack of the alien fighters, from the resulting fire, from the violent impact of the final crash, or a combination of all three- twenty seven stasis tubes had simply stopped functioning despite their redundant systems- killing the occupants in their sleep.

They now lay out, faces unperturbed by the gentle transition that had taken them from the cusp of life to death. They appeared to sleep still.

It was not death itself that troubled Kevtok as he walked the line in the utility uniform he had found his way into since the crash. He had seen death in many places, in far vaster quantities, and more brutally than what was before him now. It was the implication of the deaths- the cost to his mission objective that troubled him.

Of the survey team, without argument the most important component of the expedition, only Senior Specialists First Grade Khalot and Breha, from the meteorology and botany specialties respectively- remained. Of the twelve Serhot Ran warriors, excluding himself, Moyrt, and Hyra, four shock troopers of the sub-lieutenant grades had survived. The specialists from the geography/topography, engineering, and most important in Kevtok's mind, the intelligence disciplines lay lifeless without having contributed at all to the mission.

"This will never fly again.", Lt. Hyra said, examining at a glance the battered and bent form of the Transport Pod that she had helped land. From the appearance of the craft, the landing itself seemed miraculous and an event that the nine survivors seemed lucky to have walked away from, "So we're here to stay until the landing force arrives, or-."

"No, _but_.", Kevtok resolved aloud, confidence and command still in his voice, "We still have a mission, regardless of- _this_."

Sub-Lieutenant Ahtro, of the Serhot Ran security force, interjected with respectful skepticism, "How, sir? We have two of the survey team left."

"We're _Serhot Ran_!", Kevtok snapped in a short response, then after collecting himself continued calmly and evenly, "We have our eyes, our ears, our training, and our instincts. We also have two specialists, at least minimally cross-trained in the other disciplines- as are we. Correct?"

"Yes, Lord.", Ahtro replied.

"We can still pass a great quantity of unrefined data back to General Krymina's command. It can be distilled there into what is useful and what is not.", Kevtok thought aloud, "But first, we have to get ourselves in order. Hyra-."

"Yes, Lord?", Hyra replied immediately.

"Begin a full systems check of the ship. Find out what works and what doesn't. At a minimum, we need long range communications to contact the Fleet. Take Khalot and Breha with you and get an assessment of the survey equipment."

"Understood, Lord.", Hyra said, then to the surviving survey team said, "Let's go."

Kevtok turned to Moyrt, "Can you work?"

"As much as Duty requires", Moyrt replied, concealing the unsteadiness on his feet with some success, "and then some."

"Good.", Kevtok said, approvingly, "We seem to have escaped attention of the local indigenous population, but we can't depend on that lasting long. We need to break out and set the countermeasure pods and get the netting over the ship, now."

"I've seen jungle of this kind before, Lord.", Sub-Lieutenant First Grade Quek, an outspoken but competent and hard fighting female Serhot Ran that reminded Moyrt of a more abrasive Hyra, said, "It will rebound quickly, and if we set the camouflage netting well, it will overgrow the ship in days. The aliens would have to walk into us to see us with the naked eye."

"Then we should get started.", Kevtok said, "We'll break out the netting and equipment. Quek, you and Ahtro will join us after you finish cremation detail."

"Yes, Lord.", the two sub-lieutenants complied. It was an unpleasant detail that every warrior that had ever seen battle was familiar with. The bodies would be slathered with plasma napalm gel and set ablaze by a laser weapon. At the ultra-high burning temperature of the plasma napalm, the bodies were consumed almost instantly in sublimation- a jarring sight to the novice. It was preferable to the stench of rot that would surely come quickly in the heat and humidity of the jungle. It was also preferable to whatever other means the local ecosystem had of disposing of dead matter.

Already, even as the Serhot Ran split to carry out their duties as Kevtok had assigned, swarms of large black ants had discovered the bodies and had begun to explore nostrils and open mouths when found.

As Moyrt followed Kevtok toward the ship, he decided for himself that this would not be him. As Kevtok had commanded, they would carry out their mission regardless and Moyrt vowed silently that he would see the 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl again.

 **ASC Salvador Base,**

 **Salvador de Norte, Brazil**

The sun stood at a forty-five degree angle to the ground, and despite the breeze from the open canopy as _Marilyn_ rolled off Runway 18 onto the taxiway and the adjoining tarmac, the heat was already bordering on unbearable. Winters had grown accustomed to heat in his years at Edwards and in patrolling The Outlands of the North American Quadrant, but this was a different kind of heat. Oppressive, and thick with humidity, the heat here clung to the skin like an invisible adhesive and would not come off.

As a member of the ASC ground crew directed Winters toward a parking slot for his Valkyrie with large, orange batons, Winters spotted a procession of Cavalier Squadron Phantoms rolling off the taxiway from Runway 24 onto the same tarmac. The lead Phantom's canopy was up, and within the cockpit Winters could make out a form in flight suit and helmet- undoubtedly Lt. Col. Mathias.

Seated deeply in the interceptor's cockpit, Mathias acknowledged Winters with a wave as he was directed toward a row of hangars where his squadron's aircraft were sheltered. The hangars themselves were dwarfed in size by the CT-1 transports that had been landed at the extreme southern end of the tarmac with the smaller, more traditional VTOL cargo aircraft that carried Knight Hawk Squadron's support staff, out in front.

Winters felt the simmer of anger ease slightly as he regained the sense of purpose for why he was here.

The tarmac officer motioned Winters into a hard left turn which put the Valkyrie neatly into the painted outlines of its slot. Winters dropped the throttles back full and tapped the MFD screen icon to begin the shut-down sequence. As the engines powered down from a whine, into a drone, and then silence, an ASC ground crew quickly attached a grounding wire to the fighter and rolled a ladder into place for the pilot. Winters found himself assisted in releasing his harness straps by a Southern Cross private who seemed more interested in sideways glances at the Valkyrie's cockpit interior than in actually freeing the pilot, making Winters uneasy though nothing about the layout of the cockpit was classified.

"I've got it, lad.", Winters said, brushing the private away.

"Welcome to Salvador de Norte, Colonel.", said the private as he retreated down the ladder.

Winters switched out his helmet for his leather wheel cap and aviator's sunglasses as he freed himself of the last connections with his aircraft.

Standing so much as the raised canopy would allow and then swinging one and then the other leg over the cockpit rim onto the ladder, Winters was rewarded with the noisy relief of popping joints grown stiff in the aircraft's confines as he descended to _terra firma_. With swagger stick in his right hand and his helmet dangling by the chin strap from his left, Winters watched as the rest of Knight Hawk Squadron pulled in- eight abreast and two deep.

It was only moments before Dalton had joined Winters out in front of the assembled squadron's aircraft.

"Did you kill the maniac who jumped on us?", Dalton asked.

Winters shook his head as he spied from across the tarmac, first one figure then two, advancing toward his deplaned squadron.

"Not yet, but I'm working up to it. This is likely him."

Dalton shifted his weight from side to side, his aggravation clear as Winters assumed his own was, only manifested differently.

The two ASC pilots became more defined as they approached in a leisurely jog. The shorter of the men, in the lead, was a thick bodied soul who looked as though he could have passed from stocky to portly if it were not for the regulatory effects of military PT requirements. A well trimmed moustache graced his thick lips and round, overly tanned face beneath a short crop of black hair.

The taller, slighter man, equally tan- but this apparently by his Latin ethnicity- was similarly adorned with moustache and well-maintained, regulation length, black hair.

Both men saluted in a leisurely gesture as they came to a stop within two paces of Winters and Dalton.

"Mathias and my exec, Major Gierrmo.", announced the shorter of the men whose eye level met Winters' chin.

"Winters and Dalton.", Winters said as he and Dalton returned the salute with slightly more rigor.

Mathias stood back and gave the RDF pilots the once over from head to toe as though examining a new species never before seen by human eyes.

"Jesus Christ!-.", Mathias sputtered, his New England accent coming through more clearly in the exclamation as he saw the holstered .44 hanging below Wingers' right hip, "You the Lone Ranger or something?"

"When I shoot something, I like for it to stay down.", Winters replied, trying to let Mathias's insolence roll off him.

"I know where you're coming from. I'd like to say you'll get a chance to use that hand cannon, but we don't get too much of that around here anymore- not too much."

"We almost had a little of that about a half an hour ago If I'm not going senile.", Dalton said, venting the pressure that had built up slowly.

Mathias shrugged the comment off, "Oh, yeah- Just feeling you out. Mixing it up a little, y'know."

"And breaking God-knows how many regulations in the process.", Dalton said.

Winters wasn't certain whether his XO was still venting or starting to get spun up again. It was too hot, too much had already happened that day, and Winters was too hung over to want to deal with any more. Unlikely as it seemed, he was going to have to be the voice of moderation and reason in this.

"It was a little closer to a shooting engagement than anyone would have wanted.", Winters said.

"Well, you came out okay, didn't you?", Mathias said, torpedoing effectively Winters' attempt to disarm the situation.

"What's that supposed to mean?", Dalton asked, jaw hung in disbelief that the conversation was still going.

"I was just expecting a little more, that's all.", Mathias said as though debating a referee's call at a sporting event, "I mean, if we _had_ been shooting-. Well, it doesn't matter, does it?"

" _If_ we had been shooting", Dalton was quick to correct in the way that baseball coaches conversed over an umpire just before the shouting match began, "You wouldn't have gotten close enough to pull your little stunts."

" _Freddy_ …", Winters said as the hangover set its teeth more firmly into him.

"Look", Gierrmo said, speaking for the first time and inserting himself between his CO and Winters' XO, "General Braddock will have a sit down with all of us."

Gierrmo's voice was tinged with an accent of the Latin cultures that had merged in post-Holocaust Brazil, but his phrases were certain and solid as a result of many years of speaking English.

"He'll hear you out, Colonel Winters."

"Yeah, I guess we're going to get it, aren't we, Billy?", Mathias said, reflecting on the near shooting match, "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, as they say around these parts. And you want to get cleaned up, I'm sure Colonel."

Winters just nodded his agreement and tried to ignore the dagger turning deep in his brain.

"The ground crew will point you to the showers and where to stow your gear until we can get you set up with quarters. We'd better get off the tarmac before someone chances a shot at us from outside the perimeter- that still happens from time to time. We'll scrape you up in thirty or so and take you to our chief, eh, _Kemosabe_?"

"Delightful.", Winters managed, anything more witty precluded by the onset of the full-blown headache.

"Thirty minutes then, Colonel.", Mathias said departing, and then over his shoulder at Dalton, " _Tanto_."

Lyle had arrived without drawing attention from any of the officers. He dispensed with obligatory salute to his superiors, instead offering a pack of cigarettes as he extracted one for himself.

"Who was that asshole?", Lyle asked, his voice low enough to preclude the possibility of being heard outside of the three of them.

"You've always been a superior judge of character, Lyle.", Winters said, taking a cigarette and lighting it quickly in hope of not adding to the agony of his headache with a nicotine fit, "That was the chap whose ballocks we almost put into a sling today"

"I fucking hate him.", Dalton muttered, shaking his head as he too lit the cigarette he had gotten from Lyle, "I can't believe it. I've known him for five minutes and I hate him like I've known him for years."

"What'd Ah miss?", Lyle asked.

"Freddy hating him, or the part about us nearly shooting them out of the sky?", Winters asked.

"Both-. _What?_ "

"You know, the part where we trotted off to do mortal combat?", Winters clarified.

"When'd that happen?", Lyle asked, clearly dumbfounded, "What Ah miss?"

Winters shook his head, "You're a great judge of character, Lyle, but you're still a right twit."  
"What?- Ah was havin' a nap."

Winters looked around at the dense jungle that stood just outside of the fencelines and seemed to enclose Salvador like a stockade.

"Well, let's put on our best to meet the local MFWIC."

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

 _You're in it now, Andy Johnson._

Cedric's prophetic words rattled around inside Andy's skull as he placed a palm against the white featureless wall beside one of the four telephones mounted equal distances from one another- close enough to feel the person to either side of you breathe- within the receiving area of the recruit training center.

" _That bloody wall wasn't put there to hold your weight boy!_ ", came a shout from just behind Andy's left ear that made him jump as though prodded with a shock gun, " _Stand or I'll give you good reason to need help standing!"_

"Sorry.", Andy replied dropping his hand to his side, and then tacked on, "Sir."

The stocky Welshman whose neck Andy deeply wanted to wring, though he had no neck that Andy could tell, wore a grey beret with a patch at the crown that matched the one on the left shoulder of his grey fatigue shirt. Smelling of too much boot polish and not enough mouthwash, the man who struck Andy as being a qualified reject for casting in the role of an abusive prison guard hovered just behind him for a moment longer to make sure no other words would be forthcoming.

The casting reject, and a half a dozen quite like if not identical to him stalked the four lines of recruits with the poise of large predatory cats, making certain that no recruit breathed too deeply or sweated without permission.

It had been one of the six, Andy could not distinguish, that had expelled if not thrown the occupants of his bus off into the fading light of the Scottish twilight after an eight hour ride between stops that had packed the bus to cramped capacity before arriving at Falkirk. The torrent of profanity- or what Andy had realized minutes later had only come across as profanity through its projected volume and machinegun barrage rate- had been equal parts general insult and general instruction. Not comprehending half of it in his drowsy state, Andy had managed to retain the general order to address everyone in uniform as "sir" or "ma'am"- which given the atmosphere, Andy felt he would have done anyway.

Andy's drowsy state had begun to melt rapidly with the first bellow of the uniformed man that erupted through the bus's doorway and up to the head of the aisle The state had reached full thaw when the same individual had grabbed a fistful of Andy's jacket as he passed, and like Cedric before him, nearly threw him down the stairs with some blunt comment about moving faster.

By the time the bus load of recruits had been run a hundred and fifty meters in parallel with the unfortunate souls from six other buses to a broad, squat building of cinderblock, Andy was fully awake.

The inside of the building was devoid of anything but a polished floor buffed to a ridiculously high shine, and glaring florescent lights. Upon entering, Andy wasn't sure whether to expect to be blasted with a fire hose, machine-gunned, or simply to have the doors closed behind him and to be gassed. The thought did not linger long though- it did not have the chance.

Like expertly trained and proficient herding Shelties to the recruit sheep, the six uniformed tyrants circled and cut through the herd bellowing the instruction to form a line in alphabetical order from left to right. Dazed, it took Andy a moment and the attempt of another wide-eyed recruit to get his last name before he recognized how this could be done.

" _Jesus Christ!.. Did they reroute the buses from the fucking retard academy?! Can't one in the lot of you fucking spell?!"_

A crude line formed quickly as the tyrants pushed and pulled bodies into into straighter form.

" _Sound off!_ "

"Abner!"

"Acres!"

"Adams!"

"Adley!"

"Bewley!"  
"Ackerson!"

" _You stupid fuck-holes! Did we miss the day in grade school where they taught the bloody alphabet?! Fall out, and do it again! QUICKLY! GET THE LEAD OUT OF YOUR ASSES!"_

The process had been repeated four times, each failure treated less delicately than the last by the grey uniformed tyrants, before an alphabetically organized line had been formed correctly. This eventual success was celebrated by a count-off down the line by one to four.

Andy, and the other "threes", of whom Andy was inexpressibly grateful to find Cedric, had been hustled into a line to make a single telephone call home to alert family of their arrival.

Which brought Andy to where he was now.

The familiar, twin pulse tone of the ringing phone sounded loudly in Andy's ear as he pressed the receiver firmly to his head. He wasn't sure what limits the military had to criticizing a recruit, but if the way one's mother answered the phone was within the boundaries, Andy didn't want to be the recruit to find out.

 _You answer the phone like it's gonna bite your ear off! No wonder your son's a nancy!_

"Hello?"

Andy's heart leapt at the relief of hearing his mother's voice, which at that moment had all of the enveloping comfort of a warm bed. The thoughts all rushed for his vocal cords so quickly that they jammed in his throat- though the prominent thought was to apologize for everything he had ever done wrong at once.

"Mum, it's Andy- we're here."

"Oh, dear!- Let me get your father so he can hear your voice."

The familiar hot breath needing more mouthwash singed the back of Andy's neck, "That's it boy! No need to tell `em your life story- it's pathetic and they've been there for all of it!"

"Mum, I gotta go!", Andy managed before the tyrant's hand depressed the receiver cradle and cut the circuit.

"Down the hall, Room Three!", barked the stocky man in uniform taking the receiver from Andy, "Can you remember that, Einstein?"

"Yes sir!", Andy found himself barking.

A booted foot found its way into the seat of Andy's jeans firmly enough to start him into motion, "Move it out then!.. Next!"

Andy had not come to a complete stop on entering the room marked with a large "3" above it when an electronic note pad was thrust into his hand.

"Can you write?"

"What?"

The response had slipped before Andy could catch it- the question seeming so absurd.

" _Write, you mouthy cunt sore!_ ", hollered a new face in a uniform, "It's the act of putting words on paper in the form of symbols called letters! _Can you do it?_ "

"Yes sir!"

"Then plant your ass in that seat like it was an oak and fill out the four page form on this electronic pad! Fuck with me once more and I'll have you filling these out until wanking it becomes your worst nightmare!"

"Yes sir!"

Andy moved quickly to the third schoolhouse style desk in the second row. His desk was one of perhaps forty in the room that were being filled sequentially down the rows in the same order that the "threes" had used the phone. Sitting quickly and removing the electronic pen from its holder, Andy realized only after a moment that Cedric was directly to his left- feverishly working on his own registration forms.

Andy began to do the same- frightened to even look over at Cedric, let alone say the volumes he easily could have. As he filled in the fields, his handwriting was translated into block text on the electronic notepad, presenting a cleaner legible record. It became clear that the individual at the door was more concerned with the incoming recruits than the strict monitoring of those already seated. Andy took a chance and glanced sideways at Cedric to find him stealing looks back. Cedric, always one to push the limits when he could, expressed exactly what Andy was feeling by mouthing the two simple words: _oh shit._

"This one's pre-processed, a Lot 7.", came a voice from outside the room whose owner Andy could neither identify nor was he willing to risk a look to do so.

"Take the irons off.", was the reply from the processing official who had sliced so readily into Andy, "If we're not giving him a pen, he can't stab anyone with it."

"Or eat it from the looks of this one."

"No, he's going to behave like a gent from now on, this one is. Got a name do you?"

A third voice, this one younger but with a hardened edge that stung with each syllable of defiance, "I'm preprocessed, can't you read? Or have Army standards not gotten that high?.."

A muffled grunt and wheeze signaled a discrete shot to the third speaker's solar plexus.

"Didn't quite hear you, lad.", said the processor, "Care to repeat it?"

The first speaker, the unseen bearer of the voice saved both of the others the potential trouble, "Cattermole. Have a good time with him."

"Oh, I will."

A sharp squawk of pain from the "recruit" was begun and choked back in nearly the same breath.

Still pretending to write, Andy allowed himself quick peeks toward the right side of the room as the processor led the newest recruit forward by a twisted right ear and deposited him forcefully into the first desk of the right-most row.

"I love Lot 7s-."

"Then we're engaged?"

There was a distinct snap of breaking cartilage and a stifled yelp before the processor continued.

"I love Lot 7s because all of you hood trash think you're genuine Lee Marvin tough cases. They're so much more fun to break in."

"Then we're in the Navy?"

The Lot 7's head struck his desktop with enough force to allow Andy to feel it through the soles of his shoes. Getting his first glance of the recruit, he found him to be in an orange penal system jumpsuit- the cleanest facet of his appearance. The young man's face wasn't fully visible from where Andy sat, only a profile of sorts from the rear. His longish brown hair was combed crudely back and hung in strands over his unshaven cheek. A trickle of blood had appeared, originating from one nostril or the other and was quickly forming a stream down the cheek facing Andy.

"Keep talking.", growled the processor, "The funny thing about Lot 7s is that being _preprocessed_ and all, their paperwork sometimes gets lost. Interesting thing is, if they ain't in the system, almost _anything_ can happen, and who's to know? No one follows up on Lot 7s, I find in my experience. That magistrate who signed your orders just flushed you into a new world, laddy, and it's _my_ world. You haven't seen tough living- _yet._ "

Suddenly aware that he was being observed (and not just by Andy, Andy surmised much to his relief) the processor barked to the other recruits in the room, " _Fill out those goddamn forms, NOW!_ "

Andy began to scribble again furiously as the processor stormed out of the room to meet the next recruit. As he wrote, he thought at first and then knew he was hearing the soft plop of a dripping pipe. Only in looking over at the Lot 7, now slumped back in the desk chair as far as the rigid form of the furniture would allow, it wasn't water but drops of crimson staining orange polyester.

 **ASC Salvador Base, Brazil**

A warm shower, 750mg of aspirin, and twenty minutes in the air conditioning of a foreign locker room had Winters feeling nearly human again.

Without exception, each section of Knight Hawk Squadron had sent a representative, not always the section leader, to find out from Winters what was to be done about the Cavaliers' unorthodox approach to escorting them in earlier that morning In each case, Winters had been able to do little other than shrug and respond in some flavor of the answer that he would do whatever could be done.

Similarly the suggestion had come from Piglet that if the ASC was so keen to duke it out, that Knight Hawk Squadron should oblige them. Dutifully, Winters had responded to this by saying that this likely wasn't in line with what Major General Butler would have considered the "flawless" execution of the mission- though personally Winters was not above it.

The same complaints were now coming from Major Goodson, flight leader of the CT-1 transport flight, "Chuck Wagon", whom the Knight Hawks had escorted. Goodson had the voice of a twelve-year old, but was fortunate enough to look in the neighborhood of fourteen- but was also rumored to be a good pilot of the RDF conversion of the Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport Pod, not an easy ship to fly. With the gorilla of a hangover that had been on his back reduced to a simple monkey, Winters was able to hear him out and had been doing so for going on eight minutes.

"-And that's just one more reason I've got a bad feeling about these guys, Colonel.", Goodson summed-up.

"Sorry, come again?", Winters said, realizing that he had drifted off somewhere else in his mind for Goodson's last point. Apparently the gorilla was not so much a monkey as perhaps a large chimpanzee.

"We're not pads-down for five minutes before the trucks and hauling equipment are at my cargo door wanting in.", Goodson repeated, "No turning over of the load manifests, hell- no paperwork processed at all. When in your military career have you ever heard of that happening?"

"Try reclaiming wages lost to a payroll screw-up sometime and then talk to me about paperwork.", Winters said, "Go on though."

"It just feels weird, Colonel. More like a smash and grab than a supply transfer."

"They haven't unloaded anything yet, have they?", Winters asked.

"Hell no, sir. They haven't put a boot aboard any of my ships, and they ain't gonna until I get the nod from you."

"Good answer. Stick with it.", Winters said, "I've got to press flesh with the resident honcho here- what's his name, Freddy?"

"Braddock."

"Yeah, General Braddock. You don't get the nod from me until I get some answers from him and then have a chat with old Arnie.", Winters resolved, "I want to see how high up the chain the lunacy goes around here and report it back before we drop thousands of tons of supplies in their laps."

"Good enough for me.", Goodson agreed, "But I still don't like them hanging around my ships- and armed to boot."

"Me neither-."

Winters had been unaware of Lyle's arrival and had no idea how long he'd been standing only a few feet away, still in the utility coveralls and Western boots he'd worn from Edwards on the cargo plane.

"They're swarmin' like yella'jackets `round mah babies. It's just got me on edge."

"Anything but having those kites in a vacuum sealed package gets you on edge, Lyle.", Winters pointed out, "But I get your drift."

"I have to agree with Lyle, Jack.", Dalton chimed in, "Something is going on that they're all keen to that we're not seeing. Call it a gut feeling, little pricklies on the back of the neck, or whatever. I don't want to leave the birds out of sight with ASC circling around them like sharks."

Winters grudgingly nodded his agreement, "Okay, I'll give you that much. Goodson's a little undermanned for the area he has to watch. Get a few of the chaps to walk a tight cordon around the transports with whoever Goodson puts on the detail."

"Armed?", asked Dalton.

"Of course- Mathias said it was a dangerous neighborhood. Just make sure the chaps know I'm not looking to recreate the O.K. Corral here. – Jesus H. Christ, we're supposed to be dropping off groceries…. When the hell did things go and get so complicated?"

"Done.", Dalton said, "And the fighters?"

"Same deal. Someone scary, but not overly aggressive. Someone who'll make them want to keep their distance."

Winters and Dalton exchanged a look.

"Preacher."

Winters got to his feet and located his wheel cap, swagger stick, and sunglasses as to not be out of uniform when meeting the base commander.

"In the meantime, we should go, Freddy. Mathias is undoubtedly outside waiting, probably with a cart pulled by orphans."

"I wouldn't put it past him-.", Dalton agreed, " _Asshole._ "

"Today and tomorrow, lads.", Winters reminded them all as he headed toward the door, "And then a seaside holiday. _God give me strength_."

"You'll pardon that we lack some of the refinements of RDF facilities.", General Braddock said as a young woman, clearly civilian and more than likely a lifetime local served a chilled white wine from a bottle wrapped in a decoratively knotted white linen cloth that matched the coat and pants of her hostess's uniform, "Officer's clubs for instance. I think there are maybe four Southern Cross bases in northern Brazil that have them. Unfortunately, Salvador is not one of them."

"You seem to muttle by, sir.", Winters said raising his glass as soon as it had been filled to draw a sip that bordered on a gulp.

 _Muttling by_ would hardly have been Winters first choice of descriptions for the lifestyle that the Salvador Base CO's quarters connoted.

Lt. Col. Mathias had arrived at the flight prep building to pick up Winters and Dalton in a fairly standard land rover hard-top, rather than with the more cravenly dramatic transport Dalton had predicted. The ride, oddly devoid of conversation with Mathias and Gierrmo in the front seats and the two RDF officers in the rear, had been relatively quick. Mathias had pointed out and identified a half dozen or so buildings, mostly constructed outwardly of corrugated steel: base storage, motor pools and mechanical workshops, several large barracks for the enlisted, operations center, and base infirmary. Winters expected, having been told about forty-five seconds before their arrival there, that the commanding officer's residence would be similar or perhaps a notch above.

Quite to the contrary, Dalton's comment (as the land rover pulled through a guarded gate that was part of a 70% decorative, 30% functional perimeter fence of a mini-compound within the heart of the base) that reached back to cultural marker long forgotten by many, seemed strangely appropriate.

"Welcome to Fantasy Island…"

The comment, though irreverent was not entirely inappropriate. The CO's residence was a three storey structure, apparently of thick masonry, and with an outer coat of well maintained white stucco that caused the house to glow like a fine pearl on the emerald bed of a manicured lawn. ASC bases had mostly sprung up in Brazil from slash-and-burn clearings of the forest done with remarkable skill and speed by their corps of engineers. It was unlikely that the house had been a relic of the past, lost to the jungle, and then rediscovered as a base had risen around it. It had been built since, and from just a passing glance at considerable expense given the meeting of colonial era architecture with the home's sprawling porches and verandas, and the incorporation of new technologies as seen in the antenna and satellite dish arrays that crowned the home.

General Braddock, whose life and travel blunted accent put his origins in the same area of the English speaking world as Dalton, met the visiting officers and their guides cordially at the broad front steps just beyond the top of the circular driveway wearing not a white suit but a pressed ASC uniform. Only slightly taller than Mathias, Braddock clearly had an age advantage with a well established head of grey hair and a leathered face with deep furrows where most older men would have wrinkles. His greeting handshake with Winters, following an exchange of salutes, was rough and powerful without apparent conscious intent- like shaking the hand of a farmer, a seasoned tradesman, or more accurately: a professional soldier.

There had been no tour of the house once Braddock had invited the men in- rather they were whisked quickly through the receiving foyer with its ornate tile floor and fountain that stood at the center of the open space of the wide spiraling staircase that rose through the structures three floors and was capped apparently by a skylight that Winters was unable to see from his vantage point. The cool, dry, air conditioned climate within the house evaporated the sweat of the sultry outdoors from the squadron commander's neck so rapidly that it stung as his pores closed off.

The rooms that Braddock led the four men through as he made small talk were not ornately decorated, but far above the average lifestyle- the arrangement and furnishings intended by appearance more for formal function than living purposes. Braddock led them beyond the formal dining room to a sun room off of a parlor where a table had already been set for lunch.

"We make do.", Braddock said, unashamed, "Hopefully the transition from Edwards won't be too jarring."

The wine, dry but fruitier than the dry wines Winters was used to- not that he'd experienced the luxury of good wine in some time- had taken the edge off the headache that had begun to build again the moment he had stepped into the heat.

"The surroundings are fine, we're not on holiday- yet.", Winters said bluntly, wanting to get to the point he could feel Dalton dying to make himself, "The transition was somewhat _rocky_."

Mathias rolled his eyes like a child unwilling to submit to the scorn of being caught with his hand in the cookie jar, "Aw , Christ- here we go."

Winters locked eyes with his counterpart as they returned to center, "Don't gripe, you knew this was coming-."

General Braddock raised a hand with a motion that seemed to symbolically cut the tension between the two men, "You must be referring to Colonel Mathias's unconventional welcome this morning."

"That's an interesting way to put it.", Dalton said, sampling the wine more gingerly than Winters had.

Braddock ran a thick finger across his chin just below his lip in a contemplative gesture that may or may not have been an intentional display.

"Colonel Winters, things down here are- _different_."

"Different in ways that would prevent your men or mine from getting killed had we started swapping missile shots?", Winters asked directly, "That different?"

Dalton hadn't considered the possibility of Winters getting his blood up with an unfamiliar senior officer. The possibility was growing steadily clearer.

"No, not that different, Colonel.", Braddock said emphasizing distinctions of rank, "For the shock, I apologize and Colonel Mathias and I will speak about it later."

Mathias took on the expression of having the cookie jar lid slammed shut on his wrist.

"General, how you run operations from your command is your business and yours alone.", Winters said, now showing more restraint to Dalton's relief, "But I'll have you know that discretion to abort the mission was mine at any point, and I was _this close_."

"And I'm certainly grateful that you didn't, Colonel.", Braddock said genuinely, "You can't believe how essential those supplies in your transports' holds are to us here-."

Winters cut in, fueled by more wine, "Which leads me to a second point. Those four transports as well as my squadron of fighters are drawing an unusual amount of attention. To be curt, it's bordering on uncomfortable. If you don't mind, until we can sort out the details of unloading- I'd request that your people keep their distance."

Braddock nodded, "Done.."

"Thank you.", Winters said, settling back into his seat and finding himself in the odd position of still feeling the edge to do verbal battle, but having nothing left to fight over. He opted instead for more of his wine.

Four servers in the same white uniform as the young woman who had poured the wine appeared with two trays of covered plates and tray jacks to support them. The trays had barely been set down on the tray jacks when the servers had cleared them, setting a plate before each officer at the table and whisking away the polished silver plate lid with a dramatic whaft of steam and savory aroma.

An admirable fillet of fish under a carefully applied garnish of herb-rich tomato sauce centered each plate, accompanied by a lightly sautéed portion of fresh vegetables. Both Winters and Dalton stared for a moment, not remembering the last time they had seen fish on their plates that hadn't been ground and pressed into patties with no more identifying character to them than the generic label of "fish".

"Good Christ, Freddy-", slipped from Winters lips before he realized he was saying anything, "He cooked his pets."

Braddock snorted into a laugh that quickly grew in power to rattle the silverware on the table before it abruptly cut off, "No, Colonel-. I promise, there are as many fish in the tank this afternoon as there were this morning. Sea Bass from the east coast. It was flown in for your lunch. Please, try it. As far inland as we are, my chef is remarkably gifted when it comes to seafood."

"Do you have any ketchup?", Dalton asked suddenly.

An uneasy quiet formed over the table.

"Just kidding.", Dalton said, smiling to assure the other diners that he had indeed not been serious.

Winters fed himself a small portion of the sea bass and nearly found tears forming in his eyes as the fish melted into a tangy dew on his tongue. The A-Rations that found their way into his kitchen from the Edwards commissary, a luxury in comparison to what many still ate from day to day, seemed plastic in texture and flavor by comparison. The triple and quickly transitioning jolts of embarrassment, anger, and then guilt charged his spine like an electric current as Winters found himself wanting to smuggle some out for Rio in a napkin the way he had from time to time when an offered menu selection at the officer's mess had been particularly good. The embarrassment was the feeling of being a beggar at the table of royalty, and the reflex inclination to act that way. That blended instantly into the anger at being shown shamelessly by Braddock that he could live that way at a whim, reminding Winters that he could not. Anger subsided into shame as there would be no sneaking of a rare treat out for Rio- though she would have likely given half to her sickly excuse for a cat. She wouldn't have this dining luxury despite all that she put up with from him, nor would she likely ever in the foreseeable future.

Winters ate anyway, forcing himself to pace his bites. Fine food was too rare to waste.

"To be equally curt, Colonel Winters-", Braddock said as he methodically cut his own sea bass into strips, and then those strips into cubes , all the while taking great care to see that the fish would not touch his vegetables.

"Nigel", Winters said, then added, "Or Jack if you prefer. You're a generous host for having us at your table. That was completely unnecessary."

Braddock nodded, "Jack then. I was never a pilot, you see, U.S. Army once upon a time. Supply and transportation in SOUTHCOM when that had a meaning… Like I said though, I was never a pilot but pilots have always fascinated me."

"How so?", asked Dalton, taking Winters example as a guide to his own moderation in eating.

"Just a different mindset in some ways.", Braddock continued between bites that he did not bother to finish chewing before resuming conversation, "Logistics is all about careful planning. I figure I like the appeal of having more of those seat-of-the-pants type decisions to make. Something with more tempo, if you follow my drift."

"You're glorifying something that can quickly lose its appeal.", Winters said honestly, "Pilots, particularly fighter pilots, in my experience are just Type A personalities with a lot of training and the correct ratio of balls to brains to see them dropped into a single-seat cockpit. An interesting and unique group, to be sure, but professionals the same as you mostly. Nothing mystical."

Mathias, quiet to this point, raised his glass and tipped it to Winters, "Here, here! Commendable modesty- that's a rare quality."

Dalton glanced across the table at Mathias as he continued to work at his lunch, "Less common than unwarranted confidence at any rate."

Braddock took no notice of Dalton's comment, continuing with Winters, "How did you come upon the callsign of Jack? These stories are usually pretty good."

"Can't say I remember.", Winters said, laboring only a brief moment to try to recall when the callsign had not been a suitable alternative for his Christian or sir names.

"Well", Braddock continued, "We don't get a great diversity in visitors here at Salvador anyway. Have you ever been north to Alberta?"

"The RDF base there?", Winters asked, finishing his wine which summoned the young woman who had done the initial service to refill the glass.

"Yes.", Braddock said, "Lieutenant General Van Dorn has been a friend of mine for some years now."

"Can't say I have.", Winters replied, "Extreme cold never appealed to me."

"An Englishman unaccustomed to the cold?", Gierrmo laughed in disbelief.

"Dorchester is rather temperate, thank you- in a English sort of way.", Winters said back.

"I only ask", Braddock explained, "because our supply transports used to fly from there before the RDF decided to shuffle things up. So you wouldn't know Colonel Blankenship, Golden Eagles?"

"Can't say I've had the pleasure."

"He ran escort for those shipments and we got to know each other fairly well."

"I'm sorry to have severed such a well-cultivated relationship then.", Winters apologized, "If it makes any difference, Knight Hawk Squadron is only on this assignment by Major General Butler's strong urging."

"No choice, eh?"

"Not really.", Winters replied, "It's a long story."

"And an interesting one no doubt.", Braddock said confidently, "However we don't have the time right now really."

"No, not really."

Braddock paused to enjoy more of his lunch before continuing, "As I said earlier, Jack, to be curt, we need to offload those supplies on your transports hastily."

Winters was thinking of the beaches of Rio De Janeiro when he replied, "I agree. I'm new to the whole business, but I think we just need your signature on a few lines of paperwork, and it's yours."

"There's more than that, I'm afraid, Jack.", Braddock said.

A profound unease came over Winters. Braddock's words felt like a vague confirmation of suspicions the squadron had voiced to him and that he had been feeling out the edges of himself.

"More, sir?"

"Have you heard of the Joint Force Initiative: Gemini?", Braddock asked setting his silverware down on his plate and picking up his wine glass.

Winters had heard of the initiative, conceived of in the higher, more politically-minded echelons of both the RDF and ASC commands to promote enhanced cooperation and interoperability between forces, and endorsed by other areas of commands of both sides that sought a means to monitor one another. At best, the effort had been modestly successful and at its more common worst a fiasco.

"Assembling ASC and RDF joint task forces to share resources and capabilites to achieve common goals. I'm aware of it.", Winters responded, finding himself more and more uncomfortable with each word as to where Braddock was going.

"As you were likely briefed before coming here, Jack, there's been an escalation in rogue Zentraedi activity in the Control Zone- disquieting to say the least.", Braddock explained.

"They're getting organized and brazen, to put it simply.", Mathias said.

"Most operations to offset this trend are done by regular Southern Cross Army, with some spec-ops activity.", Braddock continued, "But the stabilizing efforts of the past few months have begun to resemble more of a containment activity- and containment is even beginning to fail."

Winters set his own silverware down, finding his appetite gone despite the shame of wasting food in a starving world, "General, I don't see what this has to do with Knight Hawk Squadron. Our orders are specific, and as you know, we're a tactical fighter squadron- not regular army or special operations."

Braddock nodded, "Your orders are specific, or at least they were when they were written and handed to you, Jack. The simple fact is that in this particular operational area of the Control Zone, the ASC lacks the air assets to adequately support all of our ground operations. To be even more frank, there is a significant operation upcoming, and we are going to require assistance as established in the provisions of Gemini."

Thoughts of the beach seemed dim and distant to Winters as he said, "I see your problem, General, but General Butler-."

Braddock completed Winters' sentence, "-Has been very cooperative- if not grudgingly. I won't put words into his mouth, Jack, as I'm sure you'll want to talk this over with your chain of command."

Winters opted to not use the first response that came to mind, but rather, "I will have to, sir."

Dalton's attention had shifted across the table to Mathias who was grinning like a small boy whose prank had just come to successful fruition.

"And that would explain why we were being felt out this morning. You were _auditioning_ us for the part? Oh, this blows…"

"We would have preferred Blankenship too.", Mathias replied, "But, _se la vis._ "

"I understand we're postponing some much deserved leave for you and your men Jack.", Braddock said, "I apologize. We'll make your involvement as brief as possible and then cut you loose. The beach will still be there, I promise. Do you accept my apology?"

Winters nodded, "Of course. Duty first, and all of that."

It was not totally a lie. It wasn't Braddock's apology or explanation that Winters wanted. He would never get it from Major General Butler, nor was he entitled to either, but he was determined to have a chat.

 **Brasilia**

"Sergeant Oakes, Corporal Gyle", Lilith said quietly under the cover of music within the small apartment, "I'd like for you to meet Yeshta- formerly Action Commander Yeshta."

Lilith, sitting in a worn, overstuffed chair on one side of the cramped living room's coffee table, placed a dossier down before the sniper team. Closed, the use-worn brown folder cover was nearly three centimeters thick. When Oakes opened it, he was astonished to find that most of the bulk was text. A half dozen photographs of the target were clipped to the inner left cover. It was these that Oakes shuffled through quickly and handed to Gyle.

"I'm going to need you to give the _formerly_ part a more concrete meaning.", Lilith added as she let the two men sort through the contents of the file while she toyed with a cigarette that she had not yet lit.

Oakes took the dossier from Gyle after his brief examination and scanned the contents at half a dozen random points, "I'm sure this is all really thrilling reading, but it's not quite what we need. Do you have intel on hs movements, where he beds down at night, things like that?... We need to establish a routine and likely places where he can be found. That'll help us scout out good positions to do the work from."

Lilith nodded, "We do have some of that, but not a lot. Yeshta's a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. Mostly because of rivalries and conflicts with other Zentraedi organizers- he's been smart enough to maintain a very mobile lifestyle. He rarely sleeps at the same location twice, and never for more than two nights at a time. One of his lieutenants, a fairly bright one who probably would have been in counterintelligence if the Zentraedi had such a thing, developed a system of establishing three to four alternate schedules in parallel. Only Yeshta and ihis immediate circle know which is the legitimate one. To boot, most of his movements are in Zentraedi areas of influence in Brasilia- areas loyal to him. So, even if his true itinerary was compromised, it would probably be divulged only as far as friendly ears that would never pass the information on to humans."

"Wait", Gyle said, leaning back on the couch and working the air with his hands as though it were abstract concepts to be organized, "You just said he rarely goes out of the Zentraedi ghettos of the city- right?"

"Yes.", Lilith said, taking a moment to light her cigarette, "Sometimes he'll actually go into the Control Zone, but that's more and more rare since his following has grown. Why wade through the muck and the mosquitoes if you can have an aide do it?"

Gyle nodded toward the sniper rifle in the corner of the room, concealed in its carrying case, "I thought you said you needed a long range shooter. Inside of a city, unobstructed spaces max out usually at distances of a couple hundred meters at most. You don't need us for that kind of shooting-. Hell, we'd almost be at a disadvantage"

Oakes closed the dossier folder and pushed it toward Lilith, "Gyle's right- you'd almost do better with someone who knew that part of the city and was handy with a aRemington hunting rifle."

"I see your point, and I'd agree except for two points.", Lilith said patiently, "First, anyone we could get to take the shot who I'd trust would have to be human. That's going to make them stick out in the Zentraedi ghettos. That's point one. Point two is, that the shooter is going to want to get away with their hide still attached. Taking a shot from within that couple hundred meters you mentioned, Corporal Gyle, means being well within the ghettos. Add that to being conspicuous by virtue of being human, and you come out on the other side of the equation without your hide attatched."

Oakes countered, "But you pretty well just admitted that the nature of the city rules out a shot from the distances that make us a good option- so we're back to square one. What good are we to you?"

"Normally, none.", Lilith admitted, "But here's where my little bit of insight coupled with your skills come together nicely. Yeshta is smart enough to move around, and to keep a lid on those movements to protect himself. He's also developed something of an addiction to the limelight- or whatever the appropriate equivalent is. He likes addressing the crowd of his followers, and without fail he always does it to rally them right before one of his major moves. He also precedes those moves and those rallying speeches with a lot of sending his lieutenants out to lay the groundwork for whatever it is that is going to be done. It never fails- I could show you the pattern."

"And you're starting to see that activity?", Oakes ventured.

Lilith nodded, "On a scale I haven't seen in years of working this subject. I haven't found out what the particulars are- hell, with my cover blown the way it is, I may never- but I can tell you, he's working on something huge. Especially now with his biggest rival out of the picture, Yeshta is going to have to reach out to a lot of Zentraedi who were on the fence. That means speaking to a very large crowd, and to do that, you need a very large open space."

"And you think you know what that place will be?", Gyle asked.

Lilith nodded, "One of three possibilities that he would trust. All plazas still within the Zentraedi ghettos, but all with access by broad avenues that form very long corridors perfect for a long-range shooter."

Oakes pointed out the obvious, "We can't be in three places at the same time though."

"And you won't have to.", Lilith said, "When the time comes, we'll have had plenty of forewarning. You just need to know the best possible position to exploit each of those three possibilities. Is this sounding a little more feasible, or am I completely off base?"

Oakes took a cigarette from the same pack that Lilith was smoking from, "It sounds like we have some prep work to do."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

"Were there Zentraedi markings?", Captain Nguyen asked, toggling through the still image captures that had been downloaded into the portable C2 workstation that would be at the heart of the LRRP/SOG command post for the next two weeks.

An open sided tent on carbon fiber posts had been erected to provide additional protection to the compact electronics and communications gear that Echo Company had rucked in to the operational area- though the equipment had been designed and tested to endure more sever climates without. 21st Century warfighting was an amalgamation of anachronisms; state-of-the-art electronics worked in a space cleared by machete, a tool of little significant difference from axes of the Bronze Age.

Beneath the tent, Nguyen continued to examine each of a dozen photos in order- one to the next and then back- trying to get a sense of the larger whole to which the piece he was seeing belonged. The notebook, known by the full nomenclature of "Command & Control, Integrated Planning & Execution, Database Micro-Portable Workstation", C2/IPE/DBMW, by acronym, but more popularly the "boss box" or "Command Integrated Device"- CID ("Sid"), was a linchpin between the individual Rangers of Echo Company, their NCOs and officers, Nguyen as CO, and the higher command structure. The workstation, when connected to the appropriate communication device was capable of transmitting relevant operational information down to the individual infantryman, or in the case of Sgt. Byerly, of receiving uploads for the commander's review. Linked back by wireless network to the higher command structure, a field commander could similarly file reports complete with still or action video, receive direction, or requisition additional support or supplies as required. CID was a conduit through which all of a unit's needs and responsibilities could flow easily, though as well designed as the system was for operational use, this element of high technology did seem out of place in the wilderness.

"No sir.", Whilite replied, crouching nearby and using the butt of his rifle as a third point of support in this posture. He removed his boonie hat and wiped a considerable accumulation of sweat from his forehead. The sun stood directly overhead now, and despite the dense canopy of the rain forest and the additional shade of the nylon tent- it had grown very hot.

"No markings whatsoever. Staff Sergeant Byerly noticed though, and I agree with her, the bit of whatever there was likely terrilium and had a paint scheme inconsistent with both RDF and ASC. It's gotta be Zentraedi."

Nguyen looked back at Sergeant Major MacDonald over the rims of his reading half glasses with an expression soliciting opinion.

"I'd have to agree with the lieutenant.", MacDonald said, "Byerly's word alone is good enough for me. Problem's this though- we don't know what we're looking for, and whether it's even still in the area. I'd suggest sending it up the chain with the daily sit-rep, Cap', but what they'll make of it or want to make of it is questionable."

Nguyen nodded, "I agree. Good find, Lieutenant, but not quite the Zentraedi we were looking for-."

Nguyen paused as 2nd Platoon passed the command post on their way out to establish their first night's listening post. There were at least eight hours of usable light left in the day, though Lt. Harr's platoon would require most of them to reach the first position assigned to them in the operation from which to base their patrols. Nguyen watched as one by one the forest's undergrowth consumed the platoon until it was gone entirely.

He returned his attention to his new second lieutenant.

"You found it here.", Nguyen said, switching the application on the ruggedized notebook computer from the image processing software to a navigational map function integrated into the workstation's command and control functionality.

"Yes sir.", Whilite said, knowing more from the icon on the map that identified the point at which he had instructed Byerly to make a virtual "mark" with her PICS navigation than by the features of the map. "And we figure whatever it was was probably headed in this direction."

Whilite traced his finger in a line just above the face of the screen.

"That passes through the extreme end of your day three sweep, bordering on 4th Platoon's zone.", MacDonald noted, "If something came down, you could run across it."

Nguyen nodded, "Possibly- and additional information would be appreciated, I'm sure. Do not get fixated though, Lieutenant. Our primary objective is to locate and evaluate rogue Zentraedi concentrations in this area and determine their levels of coordination and activity. The rest of your trophy is just gravy for the goose."

Whilite nodded, "Understood, sir. We're moving out in fifteen, so I should see to my people."

"Do that.", Nguyen replied, "And good hunting."

Whilite rose, saluted, and departed the CP leaving Nguyen and MacDonald to their command duties.

Nguyen advanced through the photos one more time. He was fond of puzzles and had been since a boy- though seductive as this one was, he knew he would need more pieces to solve it. He resolved in closing the application that he would let it go until, in the unlikely event, more puzzle pieces arrived. It was a long shot- but of little matter in the context of Echo Company's assignment.

It was likely of little consequence.

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

Recruit-Trainee Andrew Eric Johnson saw a perfect reflection of himself in every male figure standing at attention in Barracks 61.

An hour before, his hair had been reduced to a mere shadowy stubble by four easy swipes of a military barber's electric sheers. After an assembly line physical and dental exam that left Andy feeling greased and violated, and a mass swearing-in to service, the new recruit-trainees had been ushered like sheep in a livestock chute to their sheering. Following that strangely dehumanizing process, the identities of each recruit-trainee was begun construction one element at a time with the issuance of uniforms, personal hygiene items, and bedding.

Boots: Field/Utility, Gortex semi-permiable weave, black- one pair.

Trousers: Battle Dress Uniform (BDU)/Utility, grey- four pair.

Underwear: Boxer cut, button fly, white- four pair.

Shirts: Battle Dress Uniform (BDU)/Utility, grey- four.

Shirts: T-type, crew neck, grey- four.

Socks: Boot-type, cushion sole, grey- four pair.

Exercise Suite: Cold weather weight, thinsulate construction, grey- two.

 _Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera-._

Bearing stacks of their new belongings as high nearly as some of the recruit-trainees were tall, the mass of them had been run from the supply depot to the nondescript barracks of grey cinderblock that was indistinguishable, save the number "61", from any other of the three dozen that enclosed the assembly grounds on three sides.

The run itself was of little physical difficulty to Andy, though his heart raced and his chest tightened from the terror of the tyrants. The training sergeants, still herding them and keeping pace, descended like angry wasps on recruit trainees who dropped any of their new belongings in transit.

" _Recruit-Trainee, is that the dental care kit you were issued at my supply depot that I see lying on the ground?!"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

 _"Didn't I just see you sworn into my Defense Force?"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

 _"Then I've some news for you, sunshine! Those teeth that dense block of a head of yours belong to the Robotech Defense Force! If they rot, you've damaged RDF property! How are you going to take care of my Defense Force's teeth without your dental care kit?!"_

 _"I don't know, sir!"_

 _"You don't know much, do you, Recrut-Trainee?"_

 _"No sir!"_

 _"You had better get smart, and in double-time! Pick up that damn dental care kit and move your clueless ass before I take back my Defense Force's teeth with pliers and give them to someone who'll take care of them!"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

Andy had finished the run to the barracks holding his new possessions to his chest as tightly as if failure to do so would result in his soul flying out. He had made the run though, having not dropped anything and by doing so inciting the wrath of the training sergeants which several recruit-trainees had and had paid the price of repeating the run.

Having arrived in the barracks, Andy and the others had been sorted in a binary fashion to the left or right of a training sergeant toward a bunk assignment. The metal frame, cushion mattress bunks had a divided, twin wardrobe at the foot of each with a small closet and drawers with sufficient enough space for all of the recruit-trainees' new, military issued belongings. Instruction on the "proper" way to hang shirts, fold and store trousers, and store the minimal possessions came quickly and the execution was monitored with great scrutiny by the training instructors. Similarly, the recruit-trainees were schooled in the seven step procedure for making their bunks.

In both instructions, failure to comply to the letter and to the training sergeant's satisfaction resulted in heaps of tossed possessions and bedding and the command to repeat the process.

" _Recruit-Trainee, what in the name of Jesus and the Saints are you doing?"_

 _"Making my bunk as ordered, sir?"_

 _"Don't you see wrinkles in that blanket?"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

 _"Bloody right you do! Wrinkled as your nana's quim! Why didn't you follow instructions?"_

 _"I did, sir!"_

 _"Are you trying to tell me what I said?"_

 _"No sir!"_

 _"Did I not say to remove the wrinkles from your blanket by pulling the blanket taut and tucking it beneath the mattress?"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

 _"Then you didn't follow instructions!"_

 _"No sir!"_

 _"I'm confused then, which was it?! Did you or did you not follow my instructions?"_

 _"I did not, sir!"_

 _"Bloody hell, Recruit-Trainee, there's always one! I'm going to have to work on you day and night, aren't I?"_

 _"No sir!"_

 _"Well you're on my list, so we're going to see you and I! You're going to have the longest twelve weeks of your life if you don't pull your head out of your ass this instant and start listening!"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

 _"Now do it again!"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

Five minutes had been given to the recruit-trainees to shower, shave, and return to the bunk room to dress. It was at that moment that Andy realized that between a third and a half of the recruit-trainees were female. Every bit as frazzled as their male counterparts, the young women were distinguishable only by their haircuts that had allowed them to keep a length of growth to their ears. The prospect of showering with girls, normally not unpleasant to Andy, took on all sorts of terrifying possibilities for him here. It was a great relief upon reaching the communal lavatory of sinks and toilet stalls to find that the showers were at least segregated by gender.

Showering and shaving took every bit of four minutes as Andy counted backward from 240 in his head. The shaving part was the most difficult, though his face only grew stubble in four places. Up to this point, it had been a cause for some embarrassment and creative covering. Now, Andy considered himself blessed by God's good fortune compared to others around him with heavier beard growth. He was able to thoroughly wash his face and clean his disposable razor and leave the lavatory as a training sergeant barked in, "One minute!"

BDUs itched.

Andy, at this point, was certain that the excessive starching that made the fabric rigid to the point where he was sure it would stop a knife blade was another in the long list of torments that recruit-trainees were intentionally exposed to. Though the material felt like the tiny legs of insects where it touched his bare skin, Andy dared not move from where he stood at attention, his shoulder in line with the corner of his wardrobe. His bunk mate, who he had only realized was one of the female recruit-trainees as a female training sergeant had muscled them into position, stood equally rigid and with an expression of dread that Andy hoped he was not wearing as strongly as he was feeling it.

Without moving his head, Andy risked making a visual sweep of the bunk room as far as his eyes would pan. It was with some difficulty but great relief that he found Cedric at the extreme end of the row of bunks across from his own and to the left. No other faces were familiar, though he could identify the recruit-trainee labeled a "Lot 7" by an orange arm band worn around the bicep of the right arm. With his head and now his face shaved, the recruit-trainee named Cattermole looked no different from any of the others save the arm band, and perhaps something about the stoic, removed stare he wore that despite a blank expression on his face burned defiance through the ports of his eyes. Their gazes crossed and fixed momentarily and Andy found himself to be the one to look away first.

A set of double doors to the rear of the barracks and off to the right of the communal lavatory opened, and a man of short stature emerged passing the training sergeants who had assembled nearby. Like the furies who had kept the recruit-trainees in constant motion and under incessant duress for over five hours now, the man who only came to the shoulder of the shortest of the familiar training sergeants wore the same uniform and beret, though the stripes and rockers on his shoulders were more numerous.

Each step the man made was nearly mechanical in its movement and the precision with which it fell as he began to move along Andy's row from his right.

"Good morning.", said the starched automaton as each boot fall sounded the rhythm of the barracks' heartbeat: the beast that had consumed them all. His words were clear and his voice strong, the accent unmistakably Irish and unrepentantly so.

"I am Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae, your Senior Training Sergeant. You have already met Sergeants Rorque, Patrick, Neil, Henley, Flynn, and Harris. Together, we are your instructors. At this moment, you are nothing."

Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae passed before Andy, and with his eyes locked forward the recruit-trainee lost him under his field of view- sensing his passage by sound and by the scent of boot polish and a whiff of aftershave that he had associated with old men of the grandfatherly variety. It had lost its comforting association suddenly.

"You are nothing now. You lack form, focus, and function. You are nothing, but you are here because you have volunteered to shoulder the responsibility of protecting your species and your world. Because you have accepted this responsibility, you have taken on a purpose. Before you can achieve that purpose, you must first take on another. You must learn. Your purpose is to learn, the purpose of your training sergeants and I is to instruct. From this moment on, you will heed our commands like the word of the Almighty himself, and you will learn. Learning is going to involve discomfort constantly, pain regularly, and a hundred percent effort always. You have my word that your treatment by your training sergeants and myself will be that of firm kindness. You will decide the ratio of firmness to kindness. To give you form and focus, we will be hard on you- harder than anything you have ever known. The responsibility you have accepted may one day make us look like kittens in comparison and will not flinch, so neither will we. In time you will thank us. For now, you must trust us."

Andy watched as O'Shae passed Cedric, and continued to walk his circuit.

"Your training will be hard, but it will be fair. You will be shown respect, and you will respect. You will respect your training sergeants who are instructing you, and you will respect one another."

O'Shae approached the Lot 7, snatching away the orange arm band with the sound of tearing fabric and without missing a step or fluctuating in his pattern of speech, "You are equals in the shouldering of the responsibility of defending your home, and in the facing of an enemy who will kill you without discrimination."

"When you have been given form and focus, you will be divided amongst the services of the Defense Force based on your skills and abilities. Some of you will continue on as enlisted. Some who demonstrate potential will be offered entry into the Green to Gold program to become officers and lead. Then you will have function and our time together will be complete. We have a lot of work to do between now and then, and only each other to depend upon. I swear that neither your training sergeants nor I will fail you, and I swear that you will not fail us."

O'Shae stopped abruptly with a final click of his boots on the floor. Looking at the clock above the barracks main door, he said to his staff, "Sergeant Rorque, the mess opens for breakfast at zero-five hundred, does it not?"

"Yes sir, Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae.", Rorque replied, a name now given to the face for Andy.

"You then have an hour and forty-five minutes to make certain that this training platoon can march there with precision and distinction. See to it."

"Yes sir!"

O'Shae watched, physically removed but still in the pocket of each recruit-trainee as the training sergeants beneath him charged the rows, barking for the trainees to fall-in and assemble.

As Andy rushed to the center of the bunk room to become part of a column with the rest of the recruit trainees, Cedric's words came back to him with the promise of a long day- a long twelve weeks- ahead.

 _You're in it now, Andy Johnson._

187


	5. Joint Operational Initiative Gemini

**Chapter Four**

 **Joint Operational Initiative: Gemini**

"Duty.- Duty is a word with a simple definition, and a limitless matrix of practical complexities and difficulties to those who attempt to serve it. Duty will sometimes identify a clear goal, other than itself, but rarely a path to it. Duty may identify the imperative for an action, but rarely will it provide suitable justification for peripheral consequences. Duty is a creature that serves a purpose while at the same time devouring ravenously and without regard those who would serve it."

"We are creatures of Duty though- for us there is no other way. We can only put our trust into the hands of Fate and hope that outcome will redeem us."

Action Commander Kevtok

Serhot Ran, 7th Grand Army of

The Te'Dak Tohl

 **ASC Salvador Base, Brazil**

"What do you want me to say to you, Jack?", asked Major General Arnold Butler, Edwards AFB's CO, via the secure video com-link.

Winters sat at the flight engineer's station aboard Major Goodson's CT-1 transport. The cockpit was mostly powered down with the exception of the communications and life support systems, and the cool and relative dark helped to keep Winters' headache (that had returned with a vengeance at General Braddock's table) from building into a skull-pounding migraine. It was Winters, Butler, and the allegedly sound-proofed confines of the cockpit that still did not completely muffle the sounds or vibrations of the transport being hastily unloaded by Southern Cross ground crews.

"You could start by saying that you're looking frantically for a loophole that we can use to worm out of this.", Winters replied a little too sharply for discourse with a superior officer- perhaps a little too sharply for discourse with a friend.

"Well, I'm not.", Butler replied, the "friend" tone of his voice now soundly outweighed by the "superior officer", "The call for full cooperation within the provisions of The Gemini Initiative came down from the Office of the Chief of Staff, to theater command, to General Hume, to me, and on down to you. Do you see the general path down which the bullshit rolled, Jack?"

Winters nodded, not a sign of acceptance, but of grudging resignation and mild contrition, "Yes, but it rolled over you and we're nipples deep in it. This is at best the lowest form of bait and switch I've seen in years-."

Butler's face was showing less signs of sympathy and Winters knew he would have to watch how heavily he tread lest his jacket grow that much thicker with another disciplinary matter.

"Well, Jack, then I'd suggest wading around and finding the closest box of tissues so you can have a good cry over it. No one saw this coming, and you're just going to have to deal with it."

"No one on our end, anyway."

"Come again?", Butler said, Winters' flippant remark obviously having touched a nerve primed by exchanges and thoughts that Winters was not privileged to.

Winters chose his next words carefully. Even on his worst behavior, he knew when it was time to mend bridges with the important people- even when he didn't obey the knowing of it.

"Nothing that would stand up to scrutiny in an official protest", Winters explained, "But let's say that General Braddock's _oh by the way_ approach to broaching the topic was a little too practiced. He knew. He's known for some time- certainly since before you got the call from General Hume."

Winters could see Butler on the small display screen, pushing back from his desk enough to rock in his office chair. The base commander's hands locked behind his head, fingers laced together in the contemplative pose that Winters recognized as genuine and that also told him that the bridge had not been irreparably damaged.

"What?", Winters asked.

"I was getting that feeling too.", Butler admitted, "And hearing you say what you've just said-. That just sets it."

"Care to explain?"

"As much as I can.", Butler complied, "Having worked joint with the ASC on about a dozen occasions from the command level, I can tell you that getting operational details from Leonard's Finest is sort of like giving an elephant a prostate exam- you have to be prepared to dig deep and you'd better be damn careful as you're doing it. What I received this time, very promptly I might add, was well flushed out. Didn't give much cause to dig. Normally, I wouldn't complain or give it a moment's thought- but I'd already put on my shoulder-length rubber glove."

"Graphic analogy aside, what should I take away from this?", Winters asked.

Butler shook his head, "Don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe the ASC has turned over a new leaf and really wants to play nice for the sake of joint operation…"

"And then again?-.", Winters asked, voicing the beginnings of the implied.

"And then again maybe not.", Butler said, "Look, Braddock has tactical command authority in this under Gemini, so he's responsible for briefing you on the details- but I'm going to send you the conops I received on softcopy. Get back to me if the two don't mesh up, or if something puts a lump in your gut."

"That's a lot these days."

"I know the feeling, Jack. But you won't be riding it out alone at any rate."

"How's that?", Winters asked felling that he was on the verge of the lump that Butler had warned about.

"Mumuni and the Vigilantes are en route to you as we speak. They're escorting the attack wing from Nellis -."

".. _Oh by the way_..", Winters interjected wryly.

Butler paid no notice, "She'll assume command responsibilities fro the RDF component when she arrives."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Butler raised an eyebrow, "Consider it my gift to you, Jack. I'm removing you from the possibility of further screwing yourself. Besides, the operational plan called for an additional Valkyrie squadron, and the Vigilantes were already geared up to go. Mumuni's good, Jack. She'll watch your back if you watch hers."

"That wasn't the issue.", Winters countered.

"The issue is yours- keep it that way.", Butler instructed with an undertone that carried a clear "or else" message to it, "I've shard my concerns with Mumuni. Bring her up to speed with yours- quietly- when she arrives."

"Sure."

"Sure what?"

"Sure, sir."

"Not perfect, but better."

Butler's hands returned to his desktop as his chair returned to level. The speculative portion of the conversation was over.

"How is the supply transfer going?"

Winters shrugged, "Quickly, I would say, by any standards. They want their groceries- there's no arguing that."

Butler's face grew thoughtful, "You know, Jack- if you really don't want a part of this- I could legitimately order you to escort the transports back and send another squadron to take your place."

A sharp pain ran through Winters' belly that he perceived to be either pride or the early warnings of cirrhosis of the liver.

"No.", Winters said, dismissing the issue, "I don't like it, but I'm not going to walk away from it."

"Fair enough.", Butler agreed all too readily- he apparently wasn't eager to pursue the course he had suggested either, "Just watch yourself, Jack, and make sure that Mumuni does the same. Things are seldom what they seem down there."

Winters nodded, "Will do."

"Call back after your briefing then. Butler out."

The screen went dark, leaving Winters alone in the cockpit and feeling his brain riding the cusp of the migraine that he did not want or need. The migraine was inevitable though- no point in fighting it. If it did not come now, its onset would coincide with explaining to the squadron how their cakewalk mission that was to preface a brief but eagerly anticipated beach holiday had turned into a combat assignment. Winters prepared mentally the only explanations he could offer and found them to sound all too brief and weak in his mind.

 _Support joint operations… Gemini… Bullshit rolls downhill…_

"Mostly the latter.", Winters grumped quietly as he collected his wheel cap and swagger stick before powering down the CT-1's communications suite.

Winters was not expecting to find Dalton in the small passage aft of the cockpit door, and the surprise made him start slightly. Dalton occupied most of the breadth of the passage, leaning against the slender door to the transport's head (a cherished convenience not enjoyed by those of the more glamorous fighter pilot's occupation), the toes of his boots pressed to the opposing wall of secured equipment and storage lockers. His arms were folded over his chest in a way that was both common to Dalton and at the same time always reminded Winters of the way his father would greet him when he had known his son had done wrong- but wanted to hear it from his lips anyway.

"You look stressed, honey-.", Dalton said in a bland mockery of affection, "Tough day at the office?"

"A complete balls-up.", Winters said, "Better tell the chaps sooner than later."

Dalton straightened his posture as much as the passage would allow, giving Winters room to squeeze past toward the pressure door further aft.

"Braddock has our number then?"

"Yep."

"No worming out of it?"

"Nope."

"No beach?"

"Not a fucking sausage."

"Who'd we piss off?"

"Take your pick.", Winters said as he stabbed the control panel to the pressure door. The heavy door slid aside exposing the metal grate platform and steep, high-railed stairway that clung to the interior wall of the CT-1's massive cargo hold and descended along a switchback path to the deck some thirty-five meters below. Some claimed that the most daunting part of being in a CT-1's crew was reaching the flight deck (accomplished best some said with the aide of a Sherpa and two mountain goats) but neither pilot seemed to notice the dizzying heights as they were lost in their own worlds.

"We're not armed for anything but air intercept.", Dalton pointed out as the two men reached the mid-level switchback in the crew ladders.

"Taken care of.", Winters replied, not giving Dalton the time required to stoke an ember of optimism.

"How so?"

"Oh, by the way-.", Winters continued with a joke that only he was privileged to, "We'll be seeing Colonel Mumuni's Vigilantes sometime today. I'm certain they're bringing bags of fun with plenty to share."

"Well, misery does love company."

"And we're her favorite, it would seem.", Winters said bleakly.

Approaching the cargo deck, Winters took in the activity beneath him with actual interest for the first time.

When he had ascended the arduous series of ladders and platforms to the flight deck some twenty minutes before, the Southern Cross ground crew had only begun to dent the supplies that filled the transport's belly under the guidance and supervision of the crew's loadmaster. Now, a quarter of the carefully stacked, stowed, and tethered shipping crates and equipment had vanished. Like an army of ants, men and women in Southern Cross utility coveralls assaulted the supplies by hand and with powered flatbed carts and forklifts- reducing the contents of the bay with much the same appearance as the time-lapse photography of ants carving up an animal carcass and carting it away as used to appear on nature documentaries- when there had been such things.

Like ants, the work at first seemed chaotic, but there was an underlying sense that there was some kind of order to it all, even if it was not readily apparent. Clearly though, and much to his dismay, the order was not that of the CT-1s loadmaster who stood by the broad cargo door and continued to go through the motions of directing the off-loading of supplies. He actually was able to direct about one in four of the ground crew that was doing the work.

Perhaps half followed his direction.

"Colonel!-.", called the loadmaster upon seeing Winters reach the cargo deck.

Winters would have ignored the specialist had he had an option, but Dalton had responded by looking the NCO's way, and Winters would have to pass him to reach the cargo hatch and ramp to leave the CT-1.

When within comfortable shouting distance of the loadmaster, Winters replied over the persistent din, "Yes, Specialist?"

The loadmaster motioned to the activity all around them allowing the frenzy to speak for him. He then only made a bewildered and exaggerated shrugging gesture that capped it all perfectly.

 _Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, sir? What the fuck?_

Winters shrugged in reply.

"They've signed off on it all. It's theirs now- sod `em if they wreck any of it."

"I was a little more worried about the ship, sir.", the loadmaster said, as if almost by way of example a forklift burdened under what seemed an impossibly high load was nearly rear-ended by an unburdened forklift that had hustled in behind it to grapple with the next load.

Winters took a small pad of paper and a pen out of the breast pocket of his flight suit and handed it to the man.

"Take down plate numbers and start a tab. Tell them they buy anything that they break. That should keep them from bending your crate up too badly. Christ knows how long it would take to pay this thing off on ASC wages-."

"Thanks, sir.", the loadmaster said accepting the pen and pad with a tone that said anything but "thank you".

"We're RDF-AF son", Dalton said as he and Winters passed, "Remember, no problems- only challenges and solutions."

"I'll remember that when I come up for re-enlistment."

The day had grown hotter despite the shadows that had grown longer with the progression into mid-afternoon and Winters migraine suddenly took hold like the steel jaws of a bear trap. He barely noticed the equally frenzied activity around the other three transports of the Chuck Wagon flight, or the revolving procession of flatbed cargo trucks with ASC markings that awaited the scavenged spoils of the worker ants. A truck would be loaded, the load hastily lashed down, and the vehicle would vanish with a cloud of oily diesel smoke for regions unknown even as the next in line was taking on cargo.

"What now?", Dalton asked, "We'd better give Lyle the heads-up. He's going to need to find some storage space for the munitions we're carrying, and equipment to offload it."

"No.", Winters said concretely, "Not until Mumuni arrives with munitions handlers and a place to stow it. I don't want our toys sitting in their box for a second."

"Mistrust much?"

"More and more.", Winters admitted freely, "I get the feeling that these buggers would steal the fillings from our teeth if they had the chance. I'm not giving them the opportunity to have at anything more sensitive."

Dalton followed Winters closely, offering him a pack of cigarettes after tapping one out for himself. With all of the noise on the flight line, it was doubtful that anyone would have heard the exchange between the two officers had they been actively trying to eavesdrop- regardless, Dalton kept his voice as low as he could while still being heard by Winters.

"Yeah, I've been getting that feeling too. You ever get the sense that you're not in on everything that's going on around you?"

"Perpetually.", Winters replied without hesitation, "Some nonsense about fostering the spirit of joint operation says we have to swallow it. Nothing says we have to gulp though."

Dalton realized Winters was leading them in the direction of the tarmac where the whole of Knight Hawk Squadron's aircraft were parked.

"We're briefing the boys?"

"On what we can.", Winters said, "And we'd better set up a revolving watch on the kites. –Preacher's been on for what, four hours?"

"Yeah, the poor Southern Cross.", Dalton mused as the two pilots passed between a pair of hangars and emerged in view of their Valkyries. A nearby gathering of Southern Cross personnel pretended not to notice the appearance of the squadron's two senior officers much in the same way as they tried to mask their interest in the RDF transformable fighters. Cordially, Winters and Dalton pretended not to notice them in kind. The salute of indifference was silently and mutually agreed upon.

Lyle sat back inside of VC-33's open, rear cargo doors just enough to enjoy (a relative term) the shade provided by the aircraft while still being able to maintain visual accountability of his entire squadron of aircraft. He could also keep a watchful eye on the group of Southern Cross servicemen (and two women to not be gender-biased) who had appeared shortly after Knight Hawk Squadron had arrived and whose numbers had vacillated between a half dozen and ten in the hours since. Lyle was also keenly aware that they could see him watching them. More importantly they could see Lyle's old and worn, but perfectly serviceable, Winchester pump-action shotgun leaned up against one of the cargo plane's interior frames and all that it implied. ( _Son, I know you'll be nothing but a gentlemen with my daughters…_ )

Technology in firearms, like all things, had taken quantum leaps over the years- but still, Lyle found, nothing still said "hands off", like Mr. Winchester.

Mostly, what the Southern Cross onlookers had been witness to over the past hour was Lyle DeVeo's School of Cards for Beginners.

A grease-smudged and dog-eared pack of classic Bicycle playing cardshad found its way out, and games more instructional and recreational had begun around it between Lyle and the three Zentraedi airmen under his charge.

Airman 1st Class Aptur laid a fan of cards onto the deck before where he sat Indian-style, creating a soft _thud_ with the contact between his thumb and the metal plating.

"Fish.", the Zentraedi said proudly.

"That's _flush_ , pard'", Lyle corrected, quickly taking in the 2 to 6 cards whose uniformity in diamonds was disrupted by a five of spades, "`N yer five is outta suit. See, they all gotta be diamonds to make `er a straight flush."

Aptur blinked, not quite comprehending.

Senior Airman Ghurdyt blurted something in Zentraedi that lit the spark of understanding in Aptur's eyes. The airman nodded and as proudly as he had laid the cards, he sheepishly collected them back into his giant hands.

Lyle slapped his subordinate on the knee assuringly, "Y'll geyt it. We'll have ya inta Texas Hold `Em by supper."

Lyle collected cards from his team, lamenting that he didn't have the wicked streak in him to be playing them for money- he could have significantly subsidized his retirement pension in the hours they had been playing. He quickly formed up the full deck and handed it over to Airman 1st Class Kokim. Kokim seemed to have a better grasp of both five and seven card stud than Aptur, and around the same interest- but what he had shown real enthusiasm for was shuffling. His eyes had widened with each rather basic (and poorly executed, though Lyle wasn't going to admit it to his adoring fan) parlor shuffling trick that Lyle had shown him. Much like his cousin's two boys, four and six, Kokim's desire and ability to mimic Lyle's skill were not quite equal.

They had time to work on it though.

As cards were crudely swapped from one of Kokim's large hands to the other, Lyle noticed the approach of Winteers and Dalton across the tarmac walking at a brisk pace that said to the mechanic that they were here for more than a casual visit.

"Better not deal me in on this hand, boys.", Lyle said, fighting his modest paunch to get to his feet.

The aircraft captain jogged out to meet the CO and XO, slipping on his Pistons cap as he went. Winters and Dalton stopped short of halfway between them, allowing Lyle to close most of the distance.

"What's up, boss?", Lyle asked.

"Lots.", Winters said, "The short version is this-. The Vigilantes will be on station by nightfall, and they'll be bringing the tools and toys to change out our weapons load- so be ready for that."

Lyle seemed unperturbed by the implications, only nodding his compliance, "Sure."

Dalton motioned with his head in the direction of the idle Valkyries, "Any activity in that area?"

Lyle shook his head and motioned to where Major Wayne sat in the shade of his fighter's wing, "Naw, Preacher's had to give a few dirty looks, but they ain't come within thirty meters, Ah reckon. Y'can feel `em wantin' ta though."

"Well, I want a good throw with Miss September, but that's not happening either.", Winters commented crassly.

Taking in his surroundings more carefully, Winters spotted something for the first time- or perhaps was just now noticing it.

A half dozen- no, seven- civilians stood just outside of the double-fencing of the interior perimeter that surround the flight line at Salvidor Base. There was no mistaking that they were civilians. At a glance, their clothing was at best badly worn and faded and in many cases tattered, and hung slack off of gaunt bodies. At somewhere around a hundred and fifty meters distance, Winters had difficulty distinguishing between men and women in the group- but the presence of two children was unquestionable and the proximity to two of the stick figures which the children stuck seemed to Winters to identify them as women.

"Hello.", Winters heard escape from his own lips.

The single word drew Dalton and Lyle's attention as well.

"Okay, this is odd.", Dalton said, shielding his eyes from the declining sun.

As though Dalton's movement to shade his eyes had given the small group some assurance that they were being seen, one of the men (or so Winters figured by his slightly larger stature and more robust build) lifted something thin from his side. Too thin to be a weapon, Winters was not so alarmed as engaged with curiosity as the object went over the man's head and flattened into crude rectangle to become a sign.

The sun was working against the pilot, and the script on the medium-brown cardboard was faint at best- but Winters could pick out the makings of words- though not in English. Portuguese, or Spanish perhaps- Winters wasn't gifted with an extensive vocabulary in either.

"Can either of you make that out?", Winters asked Lyle and Dalton.

"Looks like maybe-.", Dalton began to say when the shape of a land rover similar to the one that had carried he and Winters to General Braddock's residence rushed upon the small band along the fence line from the left.

The group scattered, retreating from the fence, as the vehicle, clearly marked "MILITARY POLICE" made no attempt to slow or stop until it was solidly between the civilians and the flight line.

" _Sheeeeeeeyt_.", tumbled from Lyle's mouth like jewels of a common truth in an unusually elongated bastardization of "shit".

Beneath the high body clearance of the land rover, the three could see three pairs of legs spill out and scatter. There was a barked order, a muffled shout of confusion or protest- perhaps both- and then the sharp, triple crack of a small-caliber automatic weapon.

A moment's silence was followed by a scream. There was at least one woman in the group- that much was sure now. The shrill, lingering cry of horror made that much clear.

None of the three in the open of the tarmac had scarcely time to react when shadowy movements inside of the rover's cab showed that the group was being hastily loaded- no, _thrown_ \- into the vehicle. The screaming of the woman had changed to a distinct wailing, but had been joined by something from the children that hung between horror and grief.

It did not last though, as the rover kicked into gear and sped off into a broad turn with rooster tails of earth kicking up in its wake and as quickly as the queer incident had begun, it ended.

"That happens sometimes."

Winters took a moment to recognize Mathias's voice. Part of his brain had told his neck to turn his head in the right direction to confirm the identification- but the muscles didn't listen. He continued to stare at the now open area of perimeter fence that retained no evidence of what had just happened there. None except-. It took Winters' eyes a moment to recognize it, but the sign that had been held up was laying in the grass just beyond the gouges left by the rover's tires.

"Sometimes-.", Mathias continued to explain before Winters, ignoring him as much as he could without conscious effort being brought to bear, began to trot and then jog intently toward the fence line. "-Hey!"

Not that it concerned him, but Winters was aware that Dalton was at his side as his jogging broke into a full sprint. Lyle, by the sound of his steps, was having some difficulty keeping up due to his shorter legs. Similarly, Mathias was unable to keep the pace but was thundering on intently.

Preacher met Winters and Dalton at the fence line, not nearly as winded as the two smokers, but panting perhaps out of the shock of what had happened.

"Did you just see that?", Wayne asked between gulps of air.

Winters didn't bother to answer, rather sought out the civilian's sign between the chain links of the fence to glean its message.

The sign lay on the grass not six meters away, its corner crushed into the tire rut left by the rover. The face of the sign lay down on the grass. The message was unreadable, or rather the message intended to be read by the civilians was unreadable. Dots of blood that had streaked across the cardboard spelled a message of their own.

" _Have you lost your fucking mind?!_ ", Mathias panted, arriving at the moment Winters realized he was to be denied any kind of explanation of what had just happened outside of the rubbish he was certain he'd be receiving momentarily from his ASC counterpart.

Lyle was on Mathias's heels, relentlessly if not hotly, his arms pumping with the act of running in the way that photographers for sports magazines liked to capture- _what were those blokes in American football called again?_ \- linebackers. The way that photographers liked to snap a shot of a linebacker in the split second before they crushed someone on the opposing team with a flying tackle.

It was clear that Lyle had no intention of tackling Mathias, but that didn't keep Winters from wishing that he would.

"Have I lost _my_ fucking mind?", Winters stammered, wanting to strike Mathias with his swagger stick forcefully enough to dislodge his eyes from their sockets, " _What the bloody hell was that?!_ "

Mathias took a moment to collect himself before saying simply, "Sappers."

Winters, in the corner of his eye saw Dalton's jaw literally hang slack for a moment and wondered if his was doing the same.

" _Sappers?_ ", Winters repeated. Perhaps if he struck Mathias hard enough with the swagger stick he could dislodge some teeth as well- _Beating a la Badger_ with a twist. "I'm a far fucking cry from EOD, but I can tell the difference between a cardboard sign and a satchel charge- try again."

Mathias replied viciously enough to cause Winters concern on whether he might be about to receive a beating ( _a la Badger_ ).

"Well, don't we know _every fucking thing in the world?!_ The base's outer perimeter has holes. Civilians get in all the time- mostly to swap or fuck PX supplies out of our personnel. That's it most of the time. Sometimes, especially when the population starts to get hungry, they do crazy shit like walking into a group of our people and setting off a belt of grenades. So, until you've had boots on the ground here for more than six hours, _don't fucking talk at me like I don't know the score here, pal!_ You've got no idea what hungry people are capable of."

Winters fought the powerful urge to escalate, or at least continue the argument- but instead just looked on through the fence again at the blood spattered sign that was already drawing flies to its sticky serving table.

"Actually, I do."

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

Training Platoon 6045 had not made it to breakfast.

By 0320 the platoon had found itself out on the marshalling grounds bracketed by barracks in the company of no less than a dozen other training platoons. Bathed by merciless glare of floodlights lit the grounds like day and provided an appropriate atmosphere for the equally harsh training sergeants to apply their trade.

By 0400, unsympathetic clouds somewhere above had begun to release a soft but steady rain onto the recruit trainees. The wet and cold was a discomfort that Andy had not needed heaped on top of having to learn anew the "correct" way to walk. _Marching_ wasn't exactly _walking_ though- it felt to Andy more like an excuse to make noise and abuse the pavement in unison to tunes ( _Cadence! Cadence you soft-headed twit! If ye wanna sing tunes, we'll send ye ta the bloody Girl Scouts!_ )- to _cadences_ \- that served no function except to provide a stepping rhythm in their absurdity, and to distract the recruit trainees from the absurdity of exactly what they were doing.

" _Your Dada LEFT at the time you were born!"_

" _You're RIGHT, he LEFT!"_

" _Your Mum saw you weren't RIGHT, so she LEFT!"_

" _You're RIGHT! She LEFT!"_

" _He LEFT, she LEFT... They LEFT their family of forty-eight kids!.."_

" _Mum `n Dada LEFT, they LEFT, you're RIGHT!"_

So it had been for hours, or perhaps more- Andy was no longer sure. At some point the darkness had given way to the changing greys of a Scottish morning. Time was measured in boot steps, trips up and down the marshalling grounds, and the ever-increasing increments of foot pain from new boots that had quickly filled with water to the point of squirting with each step. There were also the ever-present training sergeants whose particular brand of ESP allowed them to see each and every misstep or slip from uniform motion.

No less observant in this to his juniors was Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae who had joined the platoon on the grounds and had been there for every step since. His rebukes were no more or less pointed than those of the junior sergeants- but where they were clearly occupied constantly with the platoon as a whole, O'Shae could linger with a recruit trainee like an open sore- and with similar appeal.

" _Having a nice morning stroll, are we Gilmore? Aye, why ruin our time in the rain by actually learning to march, eh? No need for that, is there boy-o? Tell me, ye'fraid of the other recruit trainees maybe? Afraid someone's got you pegged for wantin' a good buggering? Be honest, laddy, because you're marching with a bit of a clench there. You look a-feared a'losing a fart the way the Pharaoh was afraid a'losing the Jews. Or are you holding something else back? Tell me true, lad- your testicles haven't descended yet have they? Marching the way you do, I see why- I'd be ashamed to be seen with you too. No matter though, because we're going nowhere. Just strolling in the rain, aren't we? Aye, if it's na rainin', it's na trainin', is it?"_

At the same time that Andy was counting his blessings for being more toward the interior of the block formation for marching drill, he also marveled at the way O'Shae's attention caused a physical shrinking in the recipient. It was masterful command of the English language, Andy decided, worthy of the best orator's envy. O'Shae's voice seldom rose above a conversational volume, but it struck with the power of a sledgehammer. The brief thought of what O'Shae's words would do if projected with any greater force nearly made Andy fall out of step. The fear of finding out kept him in it.

" _And who do we have here?"_

O'Shae had found the Lot 7, two rows up from Andy and on the outer right column. Andy had the sneaking suspicion that despite the equalizing display O'Shae had made of tearing away the recruit trainee's arm band back in the barracks, that the senior training sergeant had been keenly watching the addition to his platoon from the penal system. How much scrutiny and whether it was warranted was O'Shae's business, and was likely to be a source of discomfort for the Lot 7.

" _Cattermole… Lancelot Cattermole- now there's a real pretty name your mum hung on you. Is that like Sir Lancelot? He was the chaste one, wasn't he? I see the resemblance now, lad. You have the look of a man who has to pay to say cunny, let alone touch it. And no wonder if marching is any tell of fucking. I thought Gilmore was hopeless, but Jesus H. Christ, you've raised the bar for pitiful. You march like seventy-year old Aunt Margaret. Don't hurry and learn to march on our account, Aunt Moggie, we're content to be here all day. Don't rush on your account either, it's not like you've a hot date waiting…"_

"Not since I cock-hobbled your Aunt Margaret-."

The reply had been at no greater volume than O'Shae's steady barrage, but to Andy's ears it had cracked as loudly and distinctly as a rifle report, its implication severing his spine and numbing his body with cold terror.

Cattermole was torn from the ranks with force that seemed impossible to have come from such a small frame as O'Shae's. Andy could feel arms and feet around him go instantly out of sync as the spectacle captured the attention of the recruit trainees beyond their ability to reclaim as the recruit trainee was tumbled across the wet pavement only to come up ready to fight. Andy was certain that he might have taken a swing at O'Shae, had the senior training sergeant allowed him to.

With speed and agility that would have been impressive for a man a third O'Shae's apparent age, the senior sergeant struck the younger man sharply, but not powerfully, below the sternum before the younger man could raise his clenched fists to strike. Before the air had rushed from Cattermole's lungs completely, O'Shae had stepped through and swept the recruit's knee out from behind. Cattermole would have gone to the pavement if O'Shae had not demonstrated a second feat of impossible strength in catching him at the armpits and somehow righting him to his feet.

The junior training sergeants had descended on the recruit trainee like a swarm of wasps by this time, and O'Shae sent him into their midst with a grazing kick to the seat of the trousers that asserted his control over the situation, but in an odd way seemed to Andy to have an air of play just below the surface. _Boys at play_ , his mother would have said.

" _I thought we might have a chance of maybe making it to lunch!_ ", O'Shae bellowed at the platoon as though each recruit trainee had offended him individually, " _But Aunt Moggie says that we're going to need a lot more drilling! Aye, you can thank Aunt Moggie because I can see this is going to be the fittest, best marching training platoon on the compound! Now, fall in for marching on the double-time! March!"_

The pace of the march doubled as the Scottish rain conspired with an Irish training sergeant to weave a masterpiece of misery. Almost as though to mock him, Andy thought he could smell the first hints of lunch from the mess hall just as he'd forgotten the breakfast lost.

 _Thanks, Aunt Moggie._

 **Brasilia, Brazil**

The back alley door had opened into a storage room that in turn had been connected to a maze of tight corridors whose box-choked confines had led to a small room devoid of anything but a table and two chairs.

Sub-Commander Fral, who had been separated from his half dozen body guards at the alley, felt an intense moment of panic at finding himself in the empty room. Days had passed since a similar meeting to what this was supposed to be had claimed the life of his superior, Sub-Commander Dornian. Now, in a room separated from his only real defense against a similar fate, Fral found himself questioning involuntarily whether the assassins who had butchered Dornian might not have been in collusion with Yeshta after all.

Fral's anxiety eased measurably as the door to the room opened again and Yeshta's solitary figure entered wearing the same improvised approximation of an Imperial uniform as he had worn to the last meeting. Separated from his guards, without Dornian, and out of the sight of his followers who were now looking to him to varying degrees for leadership- Fral made the obligatory gesture of duty, saluting the Action Commander with a clenched fist brought to his heart.

Yeshta returned the salute and gestured to the table with the casual informality of a host doing his best to make comfortable an unexpected guest.

Fral went around to the far side of the table, taking the seat that would not leave his back exposed to the door through which he and Yeshta had entered. He was feeling more at ease, but days before so had Dornian.

Yeshta sat opposite Fral, the chair of plastic and wood that had been built and intended for micronians creaking under his substantial bulk and weight. The lack of refreshment, particularly tea (a human luxury of which Yeshta had become unashamedly fond), told Fral that the meeting was likely to be a short one. Or perhaps, Fral considered almost as an afterthought recalling the unexpected and jolting demise of Yeshta's lieutenant Byah, Yeshta was still as on edge as Fral and was unwilling to risk any possible mode of assassination.

"I am pleased to see you are well.", Yeshta said genuinely to Fral, "I have no doubt that the fact that you survived the treachery of the other day is in no small part to thank that there haven't been reprisals from Dornian's ranks."

"Possibly.", Fral admitted, recalling the onslaught of lieutenants who had found him in person, by messenger, or various forms of communication following the spread of word of Dornian's death demanding action. Each instance had been a potential bomb that Fral had been forced to defuse lest one go off and in doing so set off the entire magazine, as it were, that Dornian had assembled.

"Though Dornian's lieutenants are as likely to strike at one another as they are to strike at you or the micronians, Yeshta. If I've given them pause or held Dornian's followers together, it may only be temporary."

Yeshta shook his head, "No, I don't think so. They have reservations about one another, but you've held them together. I'd say they're demonstrating a desire to be led that outweighs their differences, strong as those differences may be. You can work with that."

Fral felt a heaviness settle upon him that he had come to know since the initial shock of Dornian's death had lifted. It was the weight felt by one who had crossed the line between action officer and the individual to which action officers looked to for direction.

He had become a leader.

"I assume your counsel isn't being offered for the sole purpose of my benefit.", Fral said, "My grooming must serve a purpose to you too, Yeshta."

"Naturally.", Yeshta admitted openly, "Though it doesn't have to be a completely self-serving thing."

"I'm still listening.", Fral said. He had found in his dealings with Yeshta, even as a subordinate to Dornian, that while he did not always agree with the action commander's motives and methods, Yeshta was at the least always worth hearing out.

Yeshta continued, "Do you see and accept that I had no part in Dornian's death?"

"I do.", Fral said truthfully, "If I had the slightest suspicion of conspiracy, I would not have come."

"Good- then we may speak plainly as two officers with a common problem.", Yeshta said feeling he'd established an important bridge, "I feel it was Fate's will that spared both you and I. Dornian was many things- a good organizer of warriors, a brave leader on the battlefield- but for the challenges we now face, he was somewhat lacking. You are a more reasonable warrior than he, Fral."

"What am I to be reasonable about, Yeshta?", Fral asked bluntly, "I believe I know where you are going with this, but it would be best if you said it plainly."

Yeshta accepted the invitation to be direct, saying, "You should be reasonable about the fact that we must work together in order to escape this world. Now more than ever it is clear that we have no place here under terms acceptable to both the micronians and ourselves. We must leave."

"I agree.", Fral said, "The micronians will not accept us living amongst them by The Warrior's Code- but they will not allow us to leave living by it either. The only condition they will accept us under is the one where we abandon that part of ourselves that makes us Zentraedi, and to become a mimicry of them."

"I have the means.", Yeshta said, "Within three seasons, at the present rate of repair, I can have the three cruisers in the northern jungle operational. –At the present rate."

"But?", Fral asked, voicing the implied.

"If we combine our efforts, we may be able to accomplish our escape in half that time.", Yeshta said.

Fral was immediately inclined to respond with enthusiasm at the prospect, but found the enthusiasm quelled by reality.

"Yeshta", Fral replied, "Dornian's followers want the same as yours, to have this world behind them-. They are a different sort though. The warriors who gravitated naturally toward Dornian were more of the field variety. You have specialists from all of the disciplines- I have sheer brute force. Simply throwing them at a task as complicated as repairing a space cruiser, let alone _three_ \- will have little substantive effect."

"Be that as it may", Yeshta allowed, "they are not without value. You are correct, they may not directly be able to assist in the repair of our cruisers, but they can perform other valued support tasks- locating and collecting needed parts, materials, and supplies for instance. They can do that. In doing that, they free up more of my specialists to do the actual work. In the end, we will all benefit."

Fral knew that Dornian's followers, _his_ followers now if he could hold them together- the big _if_ \- could perform those tasks. In truth, this was exactly what they had been doing under Dornian's direction for some time. Yeshta would only be asking them to forage different materials and for a different purpose.

 _Yeshta_ would be asking them-. This raised a new issue.

"They may not accept allying with you so quickly when Dornian took pains to draw distinctions between his vision and yours.", Fral pointed out with a firm foundation of realism, "Ideas hold fast when they are all you have to cling to."

"But you would be leading them, Fral, not me. You can provide the buffer that they need to see themselves as Dornian envisioned them, while still accomplishing what you know needs to be done to free us all of this world.", Yeshta said leaning over the table for emphasis, "And it is more than a formality. You would not just be a figurehead doing my bidding. You know Dornian's lieutenants, you know their warriors. You are in a better position to organize and lead them than I could hope to be. The question is, will you lead them? Do you see the needed end, and the path to get there?"

Fral nodded, "I do. Knowing it for myself is different from convincing others though."

"That is a leader's challenge, Fral, getting others to do what you know to be best. It separates those with vision from those who simply follow vision. When we meet again, I will be able to begin to tell you what we require. Hopefully you will be able to see how we can acquire it."

Fral paused, and then warned, "Yeshta- you will have to accept that our methods of acquisition may arouse opposition from the micronians, perhaps even create direct conflict. This isn't in keeping with your mode of operation to this point."

Yeshta's expression darkened somewhat, the countenance of a visionary forced to re-examine his vision, "Yes, recent events have forced me to re-evaluate what may be possible. Our goal is the same, but the reaching of it may have to be less passive."

Reconstruction, regardless of where it was taking place in the post-Holocaust world, was a dichotomy of need versus ability.

The world _needed_ reconstruction in the literal sense of requiring that new structures be erected for housing, commerce, administration, and the countless other functions for which buildings were built.

The world, at the same time, was wanting for the tools and machines required to accomplish the task. Heavy equipment to dig and pour foundations, assemble the steel skeletons of modern architecture, or even move construction materials in great quantity were in short supply.

As a result, where reconstruction projects were gearing up or in motion, there was always a call for unskilled, day labor.

The role suited Sergeant Oakes and Corporal Gyle perfectly, though they were neither "unskilled", nor were their motives for gaining employment at a work site on the cusp of Brasilia's human and Zentraedi districts related in any way to earning a day's wages. Their weather-seasoned appearance fell right in line with those who worked for more legitimate reasons around them. Used work boots, worn shirts and trousers- all purchased through a contact of Lilith's at one of the local, open-air markets that had sprung up all over the city- completed Oakes and Gyle's appearance and credibility, lending them anonymity.

In reality anonymity at a construction site under the umbrella of the Ministry of Reconstruction was not a difficult state to achieve. The work force, organized the way that labor unions of the past would have done when the world could afford the luxury of organized labor, represented the full spectrum of a local population by law in the areas of unskilled labor, and was urged to adhere proportionately where it applied to skilled labor and trades when possible. As a result, Zentraedi and human worked together (not necessarily "side-by-side") on an evolving, twelve storey structure on Calle' Internacional. Skilled labor of the iron workers, electricians, and pipe fitters variety was mostly imported and human- but within the day labor set, the divide represented the population of Brasilia in its mix of human and Zentraedi.

" _Fuh fuck's sake, is it too much to ask t'get a day's work outta any'a yous?!_ "

Dutton, the foreman on the project whose name was only known as "Vista Nueva" by a sign painted on chipped-edged square of particle board, was clearly an import from New York.

Gyle, in shouldering a bundle of PVC piping that could have legitimately been a job for two people, mused to himself that the presence of the New Yorker indicated a local shortage of loud assholes in the Brasilia region. And, if a shortage was present, then why not import from a region that had honed that personality type to near perfection?

Still, loud and caustic as Dutton was, Gyle recognized and appreciated his efficiency at keeping people and tasks moving. In that way, they weren't unlike skilled sergeants with difficult tasks. You didn't have to like them to agree that they got things done.

" _Reconstruction Ministry says I gotta give yous a break for lunch- but they ain't sayin' when! Let's see some asses in motion!"_

Dutton glowed a baby's bottom pink and sweat ran from every pore on his cherubic body though the city's high altitude climate had no real heat to speak of. Rather it appeared to Gyle that it was Dutton's body's way of bleeding off the excess energy that could not be vented vocally. He did seem to fit his part perfectly though in barking orders at a sea of hard hats that churned in a ceaseless circuit back and forth. It was probably the only job that Dutton's appearance fit perfectly, except for perhaps answering to some small-time underworld boss named Fat Paulie about collection on the rackets.

Anyway, Dutton had apparently found his niche.

"When'd we get back to boot camp?", Gyle asked quietly of Oakes when he judged the two of them to be out of earshot of other laborers.

"Don't rightly know-.", Oakes said under a coil of heavy gauge electrical wire, "But chubby boy there could probably benefit from a few trips up ten flights of stairs."

Gyle snickered as they crossed the plank bridge of a trench that in the absence of heavy earth moving equipment he was sure had been dug by laborers such as those he and Oakes posed as. Beyond heaps of earth and various construction debris on the other side, concrete facing was beginning to go up on the lower forms of the Vista Nueva building. Through a large gap that would likely be a door when the structure was completely fitted out, a group of eight Zentraedi laborers (in keeping with the mandated demographically proportional work force) emerged and plodded heavily in the direction of the trench and eventually Dutton to pick up their next load to be borne to some location within the building. Human and Zentraedi alike leaned away as both groups passed one another as though fearing some airborne contagion from the opposing party. Incorporation of Zentraedi into the work force was intended to promote assimilation, but at times it was clear that the idea of Zentraedi assimilation was unpopular with human and alien alike- perhaps the only issue readily agreed upon by both.

Ten floors, twenty flights of switchback stairs- it didn't sound like much for men in prime physical shape as Oakes and Gyle were, and most construction workers who in the modern world were deprived of the luxury of beer in great quantity. Multiply that trip by eight or nine times (Gyle had lost count) and put the specimen of physical fitness under a 25 kilogram load of piping, and each step past the sixth floor became the sheerest act of will.

Gyle had will, as did Oakes- though it had nothing to do with seeing bundles of pipe or coils of electrical cable to their destination on the tenth floor. It had a great deal with finding an excuse to make their way to the twelfth floor and then the roof- the highest point of the Vista Nueva, and the best potential site for the real work that brought them to Brasilia.

Also, it had to do with quiet pride in themselves and their ASC affiliation though they dared not reveal it to those around them. While some human day laborers paused at regular intervals in the stairs, out of sight of Dutton now seven storeys below, for a break to ease nicotine cravings or just catch their breath- the Zentraedi laborers marched relentlessly up the steps, unfazed, and generally carrying twice to three times the load of their human counterparts.

Gyle and Oakes saw it as their obligation to keep up the human end for appearances if nothing else.

The two soldiers _incognito_ passed another laborer, a local of Latin descent if not an indigenous Brazilian, who had become familiar on sight if not by name over the course of the morning. Oakes and Gyle put the man's age at somewhere in the modest expanse between theirs, and in the nameless individual recognized common pride in being of the _homo sapiens_ variety. Wearing a laborer's denim trousers and an unadorned grey T-shirt, both of which had started the day clean in a way that seemed to indicate to the two soldiers a familiar, meticulous care and pride of possessions- no matter how meager- the man, now marked heavily with construction grit clinging to sweat spots acknowledged the other humans as they reached the tenth floor.

With a grin and a nod toward neatly arranged stacks of steel piping that would become the building's fire suppression system that had been borne up to this level by mostly Zentraedi, he said in recognizable English, " _Damn if dem no work hard!.._ "

"Yeah.", Gyle agreed, depositing his significantly lighter load of PVC piping in a stack (made intentionally less neat) nearby, "Damn if they aren't hard workers though."

It was a grudging admission of admiration for one of the species' more visible desirable qualities.

Oakes in setting his coil of electrical wire near the tool cases and supplies needed by the electricians looked about and found that in the minutes before the mandatory lunch break was likely to be called, the flow of work had grown slack despite Dutton's best efforts to prod his day laborer's on. Workers, human particularly and Zentraedi who appeared to pay the humans as little attention as possible also, were sparse on the tenth floor.

An opportunity had arisen.

"Wanna check out the view?", Oakes asked Gyle, glancing upwards as though the naked steel frame and concrete of the floor above was transparent and showed the way to their ultimate goal.

"Sure.", Gyle agreed, putting his hands at his hips as he stretched his back to a surprisingly loud pop, "We really haven't seen enough of this city."

A trickle of workers, like the last run-off through a downspout after a rainstorm, had passed Oakes and Gyle going down the building's center stairwell as they had climbed the remaining flights to the roof. The human workers were mostly oblivious to the two, their attention secured by cigarettes and the prospects of the lunch van- part of the day laborer's payment through The Ministry of Reconstruction work program. Strangely, a single Zentraedi worker, trailing a cluster of five humans, had given them a suspicious eye and two backwards glances. Both Oakes and Gyle played his study off as though they had not noticed, but after leaving the giant's view agreed quietly that it was the fact that they were carrying nothing that had aroused the contemptuous stares and was of little other consequence.

The stairwell, which would eventually be closed off in a shed structure, emerged onto the roof among stacks of bundled air conduit and ventilation caps that were yet to be fitted to openings intended for them. The Vista Nueva stood with an adequate if not commanding view over most of the surrounding buildings- or, in the _parle_ of the snipers' profession- an elevated position.

The characteristics of the Vista Nueva's roof that were appreciated immediately by the trained eyes of the sniper team though were the clear, broad path provided by Calle' Internacional into the Plaza Internacional, and the vacant concrete box that would eventually house the building's air conditioning condensers.

In the _parle_ of "their profession"- a firing position.

" _Oh yes._ ", Oakes said in a tone of pure approval as he and Gyle advanced on the condenser box, "Too sweet."

The box opened to the city almost at the outer wall of the Vista Nueva and had a clear view of a good three-quarters of the distant plaza. Work could be done from here.

"How far, do you figure?", Gyle asked, an estimate already in his head.

"Sixteen, seventeen-hundred or so.", Oakes said with the easy confidence of experience, "If that's the target location, this is our position."

"Problem though-.", Gyle pointed out even as he took a quick survey of what could be used to finish out a sniper's nest in the condenser box, "The position is perfect- but it's hardly private. I don't think Dutton grants breaks for our purpose."

Oakes shrugged, "A detail to work out. Lilith may have some suggestions."

A voice, that of a supervisor of one sort or another no doubt, called sharply at Oakes and Gyle- the man having approached without their noticing.

"Hey, you working here or what?!"

Turning and hustling for the stairwell to prevent escalation or further confrontation, Oakes said for both he and Gyle,

"Yeah."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

Ranger training was neither designed to foster nor tolerant to permit naïve preconceptions and misconceptions of the Zentraedi, be they of the marooned assimilated, marooned rogue, or prospective active Imperial "regular" variety.

Preconceptions and misconceptions, especially naïve ones, led to fixed and inflexible thinking based on flawed constructs, and through this led to inadequate force preparedness for dealing with real-world situations.

A popular misconception of the Zentraedi was that they were slow to adapt or improvise.

False.

Throughout basic service, basic infantry, and Ranger training the instructors had stressed to Whilite and those of his training units and Ranger class that this was a dire misconception. The Zentraedi were intentionally deprived by the Robotech Masters at the time of their cloning of many of the refinements so valued in the human military services- but this was not to be mistaken for lack of intelligence. The examples cited included the Zentraedi cultural developments ("culture" as it applied to activities that supported their purely military existence) of information exchanges on every level and within every discipline of knowledge gleaned and passed down by ad-hoc experimentation and experience. Combat tactics, supply and support doctrine, and even the basic repair and maintenance of equipment had come up through, was held, and disseminated through the ranks of the common Zentraedi.

Instructors had pointed out that circumstances warranted, or more accurately demanded, that the Zentraedi adapt and improvise quickly to their environments. The scope, scale, and extent of their campaigns led to an accelerated Darwinism that produced seasoned veterans of remarkable skill and ingenuity if the individual managed to survive that long.

Zentraedi, Whilite reminded himself, were quick to adapt and improvise when the situation called for those skill sets. However, it was equally true- perhaps through the "programming" they received during cloning gestation- that given conditions in which the Zentraedi felt comfortable or secure, they would revert to more "standard" modes of operation.

This was clear from a position concealed by dense undergrowth on a gentle rise fifteen meters above an established trail that 3rd Platoon had come upon at just before 0700 that morning.

The march to the patrol zone the day before had extended to just after nightfall. Whilite's Rangers had been afforded the luxury of an adequate period for rest (with the expected intrusion of scheduled perimeter security watches) though the lieutenant himself had found sleep impossible. The initial charge of an operation was carrying Whilite, and he suspected a good number of his Rangers, and it was with that energy that they had begun their first day's sweep two hours before the first light of the sun had graced the eastern sky.

Discovery of the trail had been no great feat of field skills, but rather the sheer luck of being headed in the right direction and being able to recognize the path for what it was. Even that was hardly a testament to the applicability of Ranger training- the trail was well worn into the dark earth of the rain forest and at close examination even showed the evidence of hoofed pack animals and carts used for bearing loads- an example of the Zentraedi's ability to improvise and adapt.

The stretch of trail that 3rd Platoon had chanced upon was broad and worn enough to have a visible span of some sixty to seventy meters that lay on a fairly straight line northeast to southwest. Brief investigation of the path with the Rangers mindful to stay off the travel-bared earth to prevent leaving indications of their own presence in footprints or the more remote chance of possibly tripping a booby-trap (the Zentraedi _were_ capable of improvising and adapting), showed the southwestern end of the leg curved lazily down through a depression to form a crude "J". It was on the rise above the depression through which the hook of the "J" passed that Whilite ordered a listening post established as other Rangers set seismic monitoring devices in the concealment of undergrowth along the path. Each monitor, the size of a pack of cigarettes with collapsible pike legs that would be driven into the earth, would broadcast warning to the Rangers of anything passing within a ten meter radius that was heavier than a predetermined weight. Either automatically (or as in keeping with the maximum stealth doctrine of LRRP/SOG) or at Lt. Whilite's discretion, the information could be forwarded to Capt. Nguyen at Echo Company's CP.

Whilite had been using the small electronic pen nub to mark the position and path of the trail on his PICS interface screen for eventual transmission back to the company CO when a soft rustle of undergrowth alerted the lieutenant to some cause for alarm. Whilite had closed the protective flap over the interface device on his forearm and had his rifle at the ready at his shoulder before his belly had touched earth and the undergrowth of the jungle had closed over him. It took a moment for Whilite to find Byerly through the heavy vegetation, but his eyes fixed on her when she blinked. She was looking back at him directly, both mouthing words and making hand gestures that quickly translated to the silent report that twenty-plus Zentraedi were moving in their direction down the trail. Whilite felt a momentary swell of pride in that he had both picked up on the non-verbal warnings to cover that had swept through his platoon, and that he was easily making sense of Byerly's silent reports. The moment he had been praying for in both OCS and Ranger school, where the training would "click" seemed to be at hand, and perhaps he wouldn't be the stock character of any number of war films- "the useless new officer".

The moment and thought were fleeting though for the practical demand of Whilite's attention. Even from his vantage point on the rise, it was impossible for Whilite to see more of the trail than the bottom of the hook in the "J". The undergrowth was far too dense. Neither could Whilite pick out any of his Rangers, beside Byerly who lay only a meter and a half away for the same reason. Whilite knew that they were out there in pairs though, and had a rough idea of where each pair was. There was a moment's temptation to switch on his radio and reiterate the general order to hold fire, but Whilite quickly remembered that every Ranger he commanded had more operational field experience than he, and that they would not violate the rules of engagement that he'd laid out in the pre-dawn briefing he'd given before the platoon had set out on the day's patrol. His Rangers would adhere to the reconnaissance-minded ROE and only fire if they came under fire.

Still, like Whilite, all were doubtlessly at the ready and a trigger squeeze from introducing whoever was moving along the trail to a world of hurt.

Whilite made a conscious effort to study and regulate his breathing- slow, steady, and regular- though he felt his heart pounding within his ribcage hard enough to trip the seismic monitors his Rangers had been setting.

The stock of his M-35 rifle was firmly to his shoulder as the lieutenant surveyed the world over its aligned forward and rear sights.. Perhaps it was the confidence in the weapon that basic and advanced training had ingrained into Whilite, or maybe just the reassuring feel of its solid, composite material and steel construction that gave the lieutenant a psychological boost. Rugged and sturdy enough to satisfy Mikhail Kalashnikov while at the same time possessing qualities that would have tickled Buck Rogers, the M-35 (affectionately nicknamed "The Terminator" by grunts, and often with added touch of pronunciation with an Austrian accent) was a clear bridge of the infantry weapon between the 20th and the 21st centuries, having a foot in both.

The rifle portion of the weapon was both remarkably brutal and easily maintainable, firing a heavy 8mm x 58mm caseless round at full automatic, semi-automatic, or single shot rate at the infantryman's choosing. The heavy slug ammunition was available in both ball and FMJ armor-piercing variety, standard in one way, shape, or form since the Mauser 98. The new world however had necessitated new tools for an old trade, and the M-35 was the first to make use them.

The Type-2 Shaped-Charge Armor Piercing (SCAP) round (or "blueberry" for the rounded projectile point and blue polished hue) more commonly filled the50 round, box clip magazines of rifles in the field. Designed on the same principle as it's larger cousin, the anti-tank shaped charge round, the T2/SCAP contained a warhead that was a perfect balance between power and stability. Used against thin-skinned vehicles, body armor, or bare flesh and bone the T2/SCAP had a devastating effect that appalled those who would have once fallen into the category of proponents of the Geneva Conventions.

The argument could have been made though that human and Zentraedi had never actually come together to update and ratify the agreement on the conduct of war.

Somehow humanity wasn't showing the concern it once had.

If the T2/SCAP round had set a theme of "overkill" in the design and development of the M-35, then the Multi-Munitions Launcher M-7 built into the rifle jacket beneath the barrel and gas-operating piston of each rifle completed it. The M-7 could fire a variety of grenade rounds, held in a shotgun-like magazine tube and cycled through by means of a pump-action handle; open further to breech load and fire a 20mm computer-chip fused round; or accept a muzzle loaded, short range rocket round.

The marriage of the rifle and the MML provided the infantryman with a dizzying array of tools with which to deal out death- and they were trained extensively in the use of each.

Right now though, Whilite was not in engagement mode. His mission was to observe and report. If things went another way though, he and his Rangers were well-prepared to respond.

Moments dragged and passed grudgingly, each successively longer than the last. Whilite noticed a single bead of sweat roll down the bridge and then the side of his nose. It clung for a moment by his right nostril, itching and causing the lieutenant a moment's panic as he felt the first indicators of a sneeze, but the bead then fell free making a soft _plop_ against the carbon composite of the rifle between the draw and release of Whilite's breathing.

A large fern on the trail twitched and then swayed outward and away from the path. To Whilite the flora of the rain forest broke down into essentially two groups- ferns, and trees- as it all seemed to be variants on one of those two themes.

The large fern was pushed aside and before it could sway back, the trail was filled with the form of a micronized male Zentraedi. Whilite was always amused by the term _micronized_ as even in their reduced physical size, as exemplified by the individual that Whilite tracked briefly over the sights of his rifle, the average male Zentraedi was somewhere in the neighborhood of two and a half meters tall- give or take. Additionally, they were generally quite proportional in build and strength. Females micronized to more common human proportions, but it was still not unusual to see one exceed two meters in height.

The Zentraedi warrior on point- he _was_ on point of the formation carrying an AK-47 rifle (still the most common assault rifle found in operational areas, _kudos_ Mikhail Kalashnikov) with a 100-round ammunition drum inserted into the magazine breech. The assault rifle unwarrantedly lost some of its air of lethality in the giant's hand as it appeared out of scale with the warrior and looked somewhat like a toy. It was not a toy though, and Whilite knew that in the hands of a battle-hardened Zentraedi warrior the venerable _Automat Kalashnikova_ Model 1947 was still every bit as effective as its younger cousin carried by the Rangers. Whilite also knew that most Zentraedi warriors, degraded as they appeared, were battle-hardened.

The warrior on point had clearly been living in the field for some time. The dark blue coveralls and boots (standard issue to Zentraedi in interment and socialization camps, and most commonly the attire they were seen in be it in urban, rural, or field settings) worn by the warrior were muddied and faded with use, but augmented with the crude camouflage of a shroud of torn green fabric akin to a Ghilie suit. Beneath the tattered strips of fabric, Whilite could see components of ASC and RDF Army load-bearing gear- probably stolen. Again, evidence of improvisation and adaptation.

What this Zentraedi had not learned yet was to not walk on trails- or to shave apparently.

Of the two, Whilite dismissed the first as a necessary evil as the point was followed after a gap by a second warrior, this one leading a donkey under a considerable load of crates held into a bundle by a cargo net by long set of rope reins. This warrior and animal were followed by another pair, this donkey pulling a crude but serviceable cart loaded to capacity.

Whilite had dismissed the movement of the warrior on point along the trail as a "necessary evil" after putting it into a Zentraedi context. Zentraedi warriors were not stupid (as intelligence applied to the battlefield) and they had both learned by experiencing and employing mines and boobytraps that walking on trails was a Category 1 "no-no". A warrior could navigate off trail and still follow it effectively for navigational purposes. A donkey pulling a cart or carrying a heavy load was bound to it. In simple, Zentraedi ( _Machiavellian_ seemed interchangeable here to Whilite) terms, for the purpose of ferrying stolen supplies and equipment, the donkeys were more important and the possibility of losing a warrior to a mine was favorable to a pack animal. Sound logic with a foreign morality to Whilite who worked hard to forget that humans of different nationalities had employed "human wave" combat tactics, or had used children to clear mine fields in the not-too-distant past.

Shaving though….

It was an odd thing to harp upon, Whilite knew, but something that seemed so basic- to him at any rate.

As the supply train passed along the trail, every male Zentraedi face (it was still rare to see males and females mingle of their own free will) showed some degree of beard growth. Whilite sympathized, remembering vividly the trials of puberty- and this from the perspective of one who had known that "changes" would happen to his body. The Zentraedi, male and female, had gone through most of their lives without a hint of what their bodies might do when unchecked by the hormone suppression components to their food supply. Within a month of transitioning to natural, or at least human processed foods, male Zentraedi could expect to see the growth of facial hair. Whilite didn't care to contemplate the unpleasantness that would fall upon the females in the same timeframe.

Socialization programs in the interment camps did what could be done to mentally prepare the Zentraedi to this aspect of physical maturity that they had previously been sheltered from- but it still had to be a shock. Everyone had their problems, Whilite speculated, and besides- it couldn't have been worse than being called to the chalkboard in Mrs. Evans' Algebra 1 class to solve an equation while trying to conceal a hard-on brought on by the ample development of Angelina Lorenzo in the next desk over.

Fourteen donkeys and jackasses bearing loads or pulling carts trudged by with twice that number of armed Zentraedi. Unaware that they were being observed and photographed (by Whilite at least and probably by others as well) the warriors and animals negotiated the steepening trail around the hook of the "J" and began to vanish one by one into the dense growth of the rain forest.

Within stacks and bundles on donkey or cart, Whilite saw a number of things that he would have expected to see being trundled out into the wilderness to support a group dwelling there. Red Cross supply boxes containing food, medicine, and in some cases clothing, cases of MREs and other standard issue, military field supplies, and even the significantly less benign crates that clearly contained either weapons or ammunition- all most likely stolen on raids or in ambushes that were common out in the thick.

All of these things would be of interest to Intelligence, and so Whilite cataloged it all on digital image dutifully.

It was the other "items" that Whilite could not as readily identify that he recorded most carefully. Mechanical, electrical, and computer components- clearly Zentraedi in origin and from a source that in Whilite's mind had to be other than hit-and-run raids- were in transport along with the immediately identifiable goods. It took no great genius or soldier of great experience to recognize that Intel would want to know as much about the "whos, whats", and ,"wheres", of these bits of hardware as could be provided so they could come up with the "whys".

Whilite saw fit to oblige them.

When the Zentraedi warrior bringing up the rear position had vanished into the forest and the sound of heavily laden hooves began to fade, Whilite motioned to Sgt. Byerly as he rose from his belly.

"Get First Squad up.", the lieutenant directed in a whisper, "You and I are taking them in pursuit to shadow. Have Second Squad maintain their position here to guard our rear and warn us of anything else coming down the trail. Third and Fourth, continue to set monitoring devices once the contact gives us some distance."

Byerly nodded obediently and made a series of hand gestures that conjured First Squad from the undergrowth.

As the squad deployed with Whilite in the third position behind Byerly on compass, the lieutenant continued to feel an odd sensation that he had at first misidentified as mere excitement. No, the initial rush had begun to subside now but the other feeling lingered and as it gained character of its own it was somewhat less pleasant. It wasn't fear- though Whilite allowed himself to admit inwardly that of all the Rangers in the squad at that moment, he was likely the most jumpy. The sensation was heavier- _dire_ even.

Without proof to support the suspicion, Whilite had a strong inclination to believe that what he had seen pass below him on the trail was of part of something more significant.

He also decided that he was going to find out what the "something" was.

Lt. Moyrt could feel the ache of blunt force injuries to his body amplified by the hours of intense physical labor he had participated in the previous day and through a good portion of the night.

Physical exertion normally had only the expected effects on Moyrt. As a Zentraedi, and particularly as a Serhot Ran warrior his genetic design and physical conditioning was geared specifically for extended periods of rigorous and demanding activity.

Combine the deep muscle bruising the lieutenant had received at various points of all of his limbs and torso, the fact that he was still only hours out of the inactivity of stasis, and a concussion and fatigue was the result. There were the physical causes for Moyrt's dull suffering, but there were the environmental ones as well.

The heat.

Into the night, the heat of this world had not subsided- had not surrendered a single degree as far as Moyrt could tell. The heat and humidity had clung to him, seeming to seal in all that ailed him like an invisible, sweltering cocoon. Worse though, with sunrise the heat seemed to pick up where it had left off and continued to build upon itself.

Still, the work had been accomplished.

The Transport Pod was now fully draped if not completely concealed in its camouflage netting. At least now it did not stand out in great contrast to the jungle around it that had begun, even over the course of a single night, to close up on the downed vehicle. Sub-Lieutenant Quek had been correct when she had said the previous day that the jungle would quickly swallow the transport. With the countermeasure pods now set and functioning, she was equally correct that soon any enemy would have to physically bump into the transport to discover it.

Action Commander Kevtok looked pleased- or as pleased as he ever looked- at inspection of the transport. Moyrt was also relieved to see that Kevtok was showing signs of fatigue as well, though not as pronounced as Moyrt. Over the course of the night's work the detail that eventually became a party of seven had worked at a steady pace, pausing for water and once at greater length for a small meal of concentrated field rations. Events and circumstances were wearing on all, that much was clear.

"Lord.", Hyra announced herself by way of addressing her superior, "My report is ready for your review at your convenience."

Kevtok received an electronic writing slate from Lt. Hyra and scrolled quickly through the first several pages of inventory and status, before saying to his junior officer, "I'll review it in detail later. For now, give me the key points."

Hyra complied without hesitation, "The ship's primary power and propulsion systems are gone- no chance of repairing them here. The auxiliary power cells are intact and fully functional and can provide adequate and indefinite power to the environmental and communications systems – which are under repair."

"How long until we have communications?", Kevtok asked.

"Full functionality will be returned by nightfall.", Hyra said, "Barring of course any damage we have not discovered."

Kevtok nodded, "Very good. The mecha and the equipment? Were the combat suits damaged?"

"No Lord.", Hyra replied, "The mecha, and all of the important survey equipment is undamaged, however the scaling chamber is badly damaged- it is not functional, and I doubt we can repair it."

Kevtok's expression darkened. His tools for defense had just been seriously reduced. The powerful and rugged Nacht-Rau battle suits, the principle fighting implement of the Serhot Ran, had all survived the crash, but in their micronized state, the pilots were incapable of operating them.

"Our other weapons and field supplies?"

Hyra said, "All intact. At least we're not defenseless or in danger of starvation or The Withering."

"At least there is that.", Kevtok agreed, resolving that his situation was a serious but by no means a desperate one. The mission could still be achieved.

"Very good, Lieutenant.", Kevtok said, "Is there anything else?"

Hyra paused, not sure whether Kevtok's question was just a customary follow-on, or whether she had somehow conveyed that there was something else for him. It didn't matter realy.

"Yes, Lord. Senior Specialist Breha insists on speaking with you. She would not say about what, but she was very- _insistant._ "

Kevtok found that he had a low tolerance threshold for the quirks that seemed particular if not exclusive to specialists. They regularly, in Kevtok's experience, developed tunnel vision within their own discipline, finding gems of importance that they saw as outweighing all and eclipsing protocol, that rarely amounted to much of real significance.

However, Kevtok also reminded himself, circumstances were somewhat different in this operation. The specialists and their disciplines who normally supported combat functions of the Te'Dak Tohl now enjoyed the rare, _very_ rare, distinction of having the primary role with the combat elements in support.

Succinctly, Kevtok had the rank, but to some degree the specialists had the prerogative.

Kevtok found the senior specialist to be standing nearby, something clenched in her hands. He motioned her over for an audience.

"Specialist?"

Breha's response, for all that Kevtok feared an intolerable barrage of technical speak that would mostly roll off of him, was simply to raise her hands between the two of them and open them palms up as though making an offering.

The object in Specialist Breha's hands was clearly organic, and from a plant of some kind- capsule shaped with an outer husking of orange-fringed green leaves. Something seemed familiar about it to Kevtok, familiar and in its familiarity urgent enough to mentally dig for its place of significance.

It clicked, almost audibly, but Kevtok wanted confirmation from the specialist whose primary discipline was botany.

"Specialist, what am I looking at?"

"Lord, this is a seed pod", Breha said with a reverence that Kevtok had never heard come off of Zentraedi lips, "from an Invid Flower of Life."

"That's impossible.", Kevtok scoffed, though Breha's words had given him the confirmation he needed, "The Flower of Life will grow nowhere but Opterra."

Breha peeled back the husk to reveal the maturing seed pod, "But it is here, Lord- there are a cluster of six flowers just beyond that tree line. The Flower grows on this world."

Kevtok, normally critical of the specialist ranks suddenly found himself guilty and ashamedly so for what he was most critical of them for.

The weight of the greater significance struck him like a body blow.

It was known that the hyperspace flight of Zor's battle fortress had not been a direct one to s specific destination, but rather an evasive maneuver across millions of light years with numerous jumping points. Worlds at each of these jumping points had been seeded by the fortress evidently, as Breetai had found and reported back to the Supreme Command of the norghil before his treason, resulting in a trail of worlds with mutant variants of The Flower of Life.

Never though, _never_ \- had The Flower of Life grown in its original form, the form in which it was useful to both Invid and The Masters- and by being useful to The Masters, was useful to the Te'Dak Tohl. Never had it been found in that form anywhere but the Invid homeworld of Opterra that The Masters had robbed barren spawning the war that had raged for generations. Never.

Until now.

This alien world had in an instant of enlightenment changed from the simple repository for Zor's greatest secrets, sealed in whatever remained of his battle fortress, to a means by which those secrets could be realized and employed to their fullest by the Te'Dak Tohl.

A second, more horrifying thought drove the first nearly entirely from Kevtok's mind: the Invid. The battle with the Invid had blazed across the stars for centuries, sometimes by accidental meeting, but most often along the path through the stars left by the battle fortress.

The path led here.

It was only a question of when the Invid would arrive.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

"Colonel, ma'am.", Winters said standing to attention to salute Col. Mumuni as she reached the foot of the ladder at her Valkyrie's side, "Welcome to the asshole of the world."

Mumuni returned Winters' salute, saying with a forced smile, "I'm sure I could come up with something witty, but I'm too damn tired. Where's your shadow?"

"Freddy, my better half?"

"If you factor in personality, your better _three-quarters_.", Mumuni said, stretching her back as the noon sun blasted the tarmac where Vigilante Squadron was still pulling in to form up two wing spans down from where Knight Hawk Squadron's fighters remained from the previous day.

"Only three-quarters?"

"Unpleasantness, stubbornness, and lack of refinement take up space.", Mumuni countered as she saw Dalton approaching from one of the tarmac's flight prep buildings.

"Ah, my finer qualities.", Winters said, no longer obligated to account for the whereabouts of his XO.

"Colonel, ma'am.", Dalton said with a salute as he arrived, "We were getting a little worried- we were expecting you last night."

Dalton's counterpart from Vigilante Squadron, Lt. Col. Drake arrived and exchanged nods with Dalton.

"We would have.", Mumuni explained, "Except that an hour out of Galveston we got word to re-route to Havana-."

" _Cuba?_ ", Dalton asked, amazed.

"No, dip-shit, New Jersey.", "Dusty" Drake, never one tolerant of ignorant questions and equally quick to rib the askers, replied, "Of course Havana, Cuba."

"What in God's name for?", Winters asked tapping the back of his hand against the bulge in Dalton's coverall breast pocket.

At his CO's behest, Dalton removed the pack of cigarettes and offered them all around to find a taker at each point.

"Flight plan was FUBAR once we left RDF airspace.", Mumuni said, savoring the cigarette she'd craved for hours, "We got routing orders from the ASC that conflicted with our pre-flight brief."

"Shocking.", Dalton said meaning anything but.

"Then, we got orders that conflicted _those_ orders.", Drake added.

"And then a third set.", Mumuni continued, "By then, I was ready to pull the plug-."

"Sounds familiar.", Dalton said more to Winters than anyone, a _de ja vous_ expression on his face.

"-Didn't have to though.", Mumuni said, sounding relieved, "It had gotten back to General Butler by then, and he arranged the diversion to Cuba. It was a pain in the ass and a waste of time, but given your reception yesterday-."

"Heard about that, did you?", Winters asked.

"Lost twenty when I heard that you _hadn't_ shot one of the bastards in the process or the aftermath.", Mumuni said disgustedly- probably at having lost money.

"I'm down ten.", Drake added.

"Sorry to disappoint.", Winters apologized, "So, Arnie set it all straight?"

"We had a smooth flight today.", Mumuni replied.

"Well, you live a charmed life, Colonel. Any chance that Arnie will get us off the hook here?"

Mumuni laughed, "I just got here! I'll be damned if I'm just packing up and going now."

"There's all sorts of ways you might be damned around here.", Winters said seriously, "I don't want to talk in the open, but there's some things you need to know about the way things run here."

"Oh, and don't leave your planes unattended.", Dalton contributed, "You might find them up on cinderblocks."

Mumuni's face grew severe, "You're not joking, are you?"

"Serious as the plague.", Winters assured here, "But like I said, let's not talk here."

"Fine.", Mumuni agreed, clearly intrigued, "But if we're talking operational shop, we should bring Wang into the huddle."

"Wang's here?", Dalton asked.

"Sure.", Drake said without removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth, "On one of the supply crates with the other S-2's and 3's."

"Bloody Christ, is there _anyone_ left at Edwards?", Winters balked.

"More than at Nellis.", Mumuni said without hesitation, "We've got the better part of the attack wing with us- and two CT-1s loaded with some heavy ordinance. Whatever's going on, we're not strafing cow paths."

"Wang'll know.", Dalton said.

Mumuni nodded her agreement, "Yeah, Wang'll know."

"I don't know, Colonel."

Major Wang from Edwards' Operations Section stood opposite the four squadron officers maintaining, too effectively, an expressionless face. The officers had gathered in Winters' small room on loan to him in Salvidor Base's BOQ. The air conditioner rattled loudly and Dalton (always a fan of bad spy novels) had turned on the sink's water tap to further thwart any listening devices that may have been planted by their hosts.

"See, he doesn't know.", Winters said to the other pilots, "Good enough for me. Freddy, get the plyers,Wang's got too many toenails."

Wang began to laugh the "joke" off until Dalton produced from his hip pocket a pair of pliers barrowed from Lyle for their particularly rust-speckled appearance and their aggressive teeth.

"You are joking, right?"

Drake looked to Winters, "Are you gonna put the sock in his mouth, or am I? They usually do a lot of screaming when that first nail comes out."

Dalton looked at the S-3, "`Fess up, Wang- I'd hate to see you go from a 9D to an 8 ½C."

Wang waved the threat off and turned for the door, "You all need to cut back on the Go Pills."

"Get his arms.", Mumuni said.

Winters and Drake fell on Wang, crooking his arms up and back the way one found the wings on a roaster chicken as they dragged him toward the single bunk in the room. Mumuni caught Wang's flailing left foot and began to unlace his shoe as the other two pilots sat on his chest, pinning him to the bed.

"Don't worry, Wang-.", Mumuni consoled, "I'm sure you'll be healed by the time the O Club has the Christmas dance."

As Wang's sock came off and Dalton approached with the pliers, jaws open like a cobra ready to strike, the S-3 blurted, "I don't know, _really! This isn't funny!_ "

Winters grinned and laughed, "Oh, you're going to have to do better than that, Wang-. Arnie himself told me that he'd seen the O-Plan. If he saw it, then Kropp saw it. If Kropp saw it and sent you, that means _you_ saw it."

" _That was an O-Plan, Jack, not a mission profile! Christ, ASC has point on issuing the warning and operational orders on this one!_ "

"Little toe first?", asked Dalton.

"Nice and slow.", Mumuni approved.

" _It's a space cruiser, damnit!_ ", spat Wang, his toes wiggling frantically as Dalton held his foot firmly in his left hand and the pliers in his right.

Winters and Drake got off the operations officer's chest as Dalton released his grip on his foot. Wang snatched his foot back and tucked it beneath his other leg as he sat up on the bed, wide-eyed.

"See, now that was easy, wasn't it?", Winters said, "Go on."

"I don't have all the details.", Wang insisted, "Like I said, ASC is on the point for this one. All I know is that it's some kind of strike against a downed Zentraedi cruiser in the northern Control Zone."

Dalton shrugged, "So, what's with all the secrecy? It's a space cruiser-. A big target, sure- but it ain't worth all the cloak and dagger shit."

Wang had found his sock and was hastily pulling it onto his bare foot again, either not noticing or caring that the material was twisting to the right as he pulled the sock over his heel and ankle.

"I don't know, that's the way that the ASC wanted it handled.", Wang explained, "I got the basic con-ops, and that's it. Details to be forthcoming and all that crap, which tells me that they don't know. Go pull Ridgley's toenails out, S-2s are used to abuse."

"That's why S-3s are more fun to torment.", Dalton pointed out, "So, keep going."

"Keep going _what_?", Wang said in a tone of finality, "That's it, the well is dry. I know you're flying a strike against a downed cruiser. I'm waiting for the warning order myself to get the wheres, whys, and hows."

"Surprised?", Winters asked Dalton.

"Not a bit. SOP around here I'd say.", Dalton replied.

"I'm detecting that there's more to that sentiment.", Mumuni said to the other squadron commander.

Winters sat heavily on the bed beside Wang who scooted sideways, partially to give the lieutenant colonel room, partly to be away from the apparent ring-leader of his near assault.

"Yesterday afternoon Freddy and I saw some ASC MPs gun down a couple of civilians and cart the rest off like they were- _whatever_ -. Anyway, it was glaringly disproportionate- the shooting I mean, obviously."

Silence hung in the room for a moment with the exception of the air conditioner and the running water as the assembled officers took the information in.

"What were they doing?", Drake asked, voicing the question that was on the mind of those who had not witnessed the act.

"Not a damn thing.", Dalton said, "Holding a sign-. Nothing that warranted shooting someone though."

"Holding a sign?", Mumuni repeated suspiciously, "What did the sign say, for the love of God?"

Winters shook his head, "We couldn't read it from where we were, and when we got to the fence line, the sign was laying face-down. Mathias said that there were a lot of problems with sappers around here, but those people weren't sappers. Hell, there were women and children with them and none of them look like they'd eaten in the past week. Have you ever heard of a sapper bringing his wife and kid with him? I haven't- not since the last global show anyway-."

"Did the base commander, Braddock say anything about it?", Wang asked. His shoe was back on, but he hadn't finished tying the laces yet.

"Wasn't able to speak to us.", Winters said, "Convenient."

Mumuni went back to Winters recollection, "Who's this Mathias?"

" _Asshole._ ", Dalton muttered.

Winters explained in less biased terms, "Squadron commander with the locals. Freddy's spot-on though, he's an asshole."

Mumuni said cautiously, careful not to dismiss Winters' concerns too quickly, "Okay, I'll grant you that it seemed unnecessary- what happened to the civilians- and was definitely brutal, but I don't see what it has to do with us. Are you saying there's a connection, Jack?"

Winters shook his head, "I don't know-. Sure, maybe- _Christ_ , I need a drink. Look, just keep your eyes and ears open around this place and you'll see what I mean. Something just doesn't feel right about this post."

" _Shit-._ ", Drake laughed, "I can't remember the last time that anything felt right."

"Still-.", Mumuni decided, "We're supposed to participate in the ASC's operation, fine. No one ordered us to do it blindly though. We'll wait for the warning order. If things don't look on the level, then I'll kick it up the chain to General Butler. Agreed?"

"That's acceptable to me.", Winters said.

Wang finished the knot on his shoe and stood up to leave.

"You weren't really going to pull out my toenails, were you?"

"Maybe just the little one.", Winters replied.

" _Goddamn psychopaths-._ "

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

The amazing quality of hunger, Andy had found, was its ability to drown out all other discomforts that human flesh was heir to in favor of itself.

The sharp, raw pains of breaking in a new and initially inflexible pair of boots had remained distant in Andy's mind during the morning's marching drills that had continued through lunch and into early afternoon when marching had given way to a three kilometer jog. The chill of the rain, he had grown accustomed to- even so far as to forget his own shivers and chattering teeth as these afflictions struck him from time to time. Even the abrasive bellows of the training sergeants seemed to roll off of him easily.

Hunger though- the cloying, penetrating ache that would not go away- that had only grown worse as the day had progressed.

It had occurred to Andy at one point that he was likely experiencing a tried and true motivational technique of the training sergeants. The thought of possibly foregoing dinner had kept Andy in step during the three kilometer jog, and had kept him appearing outwardly focused during the first classroom session that had followed. Hunger, and knowing that failure to meet any of the training sergeants demands would mean experiencing it longer had driven him to change into a dry uniform and make himself presentable within the three minutes the training sergeants had granted Training Platoon 6045.

Hunger was an effective motivator, and one that Andy was certain the other recruit trainees of 6045 were feeling every bit as acutely. Perhaps not the training sergeants as Andy was still on the fence whether they gained sustenance by drinking the blood of recruit trainees under the cover of darkness, but the trainees certainly.

After a moment of terror at Barracks 61, when with bellies growling audibly every recruit trainee standing at attention before their bunks praying fervently that a uniform was not out of order or one finger held too close to another, Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae had given the order that the platoon be marched to the mess hall.

And here they were.

The plastic tray containing the gloriously large helping (Andy could have sworn that the recruit trainee working the first position in the serving line had given him a wink of sympathy and support) of stew with it's unidentifiable cubes of softened meat and equally unrecognizable vegetables, and scoop of mashed potatoes that appeared as though it would also serve to patch drywall looked to Andy to be the fare of royalty. Four carrot sticks, a bowl of canned fruit cocktail, and a chocolate cake square the size of two matchbooks stacked on top of one another rounded out the offerings from the serving line. A mug of generic hot tea (the chill and damp had not left Andy's bones yet, and he'd always remembered a grandmother's- whose face he could no longer see clearly in his mind's eye- warning that a person who went to bed with chill in their bones would be cold by morning) from a large, stainless steel urn filled Andy's tray completely.

"Nice haircut, love- wanna fuck?"

Andy figured it was the faintness of hunger that made the comment from Cedric so funny. Afraid that signs of humor were against the rules though, he stifled the laugh to a snort and followed his friend, equally shorn and by the growls of his stomach, equally hungry, to one of the two tables marked with the barracks identifier of "61".

The bench seat of the table at which Cedric and Andy sat felt like a silk cushion, hand padded with goose down, and the stew was a greasy masterpiece that rivaled any meal at a five star restaurant. After a day of torment and discomfort, it was a luxury of the mediocre.

"An' tha's day one, you cunts.", said a brute of a recruit trainee who looked like a rugby player who'd been kicked off the team for unsportsmanlike behavior- and who then ate the coach who'd done the ousting.

"Ain't over yet.", said one of the female recruit trainees who had sat next to Andy without his noticing. He noticed her then, recognizing her after a moment as his bunkmate, "noticing" her in the way that young men do at the most inappropriate times. Her light brown hair hung pushed back behind her ears to either side of her long, slender face. Normally, Andy would have taken her as nothing special, but at the moment she was Aphrodite.

"An' watch how you use that _c_ word, eh? Liable to end up with achin' ballocks usin' words like that round a lady."

The brute snorted a thuggish laugh, accepting the correction from the girl half his size, "Well show me one, love `n I'll mind my tongue. She won't, but I will."

Andy's bunkmate let the last comment pass. She was already into her third spoonful of stew.

"Eh, mate-."

Andy's attention returned to the brute and he found a huge, powerful hand thrust into his face.

"Fisher."

Andy saw the name stenciled on the uniform over the pocket read, "KINGSLEY", so the friendly gesture was clear.

"Andy.", Fisher Kingsley's new friend replied, shaking his hand briefly before nodding to his chum, "And this is Cedric. Watch him though, military haircuts arouse him."

"Only yours, sweetie.", Cedric said around a mouth of potatoes.

Andy looked to his bunkmate, "And you are?"

"Pamela.", the young woman said, punctuating with another bite of her dinner, "Dunn."

"With your plate full?", Kingsley asked, "No dessert for you, my pet."

The humor wasn't lost on Andy as he asked her with a grin, "Where from?"

"Writing my biography are you?", Dunn asked, piercing Andy with dazzling hazel eyes.

"No, no- I just figured since we were sleeping together and all-."

"Well then, there are going to be changes."

"How so?"

"I'm _always_ on top."

Groans of lecherous, adolescent amusement rose all around at the table.

"Watch that one, mate.", Kingsley warned, "She can hold her own… And speaking of ladies-."

Andy's hunger had won for the moment the battle with hazel eyes and he found himself ravenously at work on his stew before the context of Kingsley's last words fell into place.

"Oh, ha'lo Aunt Moggie.", Kingsley said to Cattermole, the Lot 7, who had settled on the bench beside him, "Join the family for tea will we?"

"Why not?", Cattermole replied, already at his meal.

"Well, maybe for starters because some of us, no names here- _me_ \- don't like stompin' `bout in the rain because some blokes- _you_ \- can't keep their fucking holes shut. How's that?"

Cattermole shrugged, "Not bad."

"Then why you still `ere, eh?"

"Personal business. Self preservation, really."

"And that makes sense how?"

"The bit you learn fast in the klink is that first day, you're best to find the biggest, dumbest, loudest sack of over-inflated horseshit and kick the piss out of him.", Cattermole explained, and in looking Kingsley up and down added, "I suspect you fit the bill. So, should we scrap or just skip the formalities?"

"You're a fucking lunatic, Aunt Moggie-.", Kingsley laughed, caught off guard by the smaller man's audacity, "-A fucking loon."

"Don't make me kick your ass again-."

A quieted, weary laugh was shared over bad stew.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

The warning order from the ASC Operations Section of Salvidor Base had come ominously fast upon the heels of the "meeting" of the RDF officers from Edwards. Maj. Wang had something of substance in hand now though, so with his toenails no longer in immediate jeopardy, he looked somewhat more comfortable presenting to the combined Edwards contingent of Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadron, all squeezed into a single ready room for the first briefing of the evolving mission.

"Good morning, Vigilantes and Knight Hawks-.", Wang began in his cutom.

" _Afternoon_ , Wang!"

"Jet lag's a bitch, ain't it?!"

Wang blushed mildly to the comments and resulting laughs of good-natured ribbing from the pilots before continuing.

"Time check- _complete_.", Wang said, pretending to mark something off of a list on the briefing podium that did not actually exist, "So, on to the main point. These are the initial details of mission J-332, code named, _Back Step_."

"Back Trap?"

"Bite Strap?"

Wang let the sophomoric humor run its course with a few laughs before continuing, "There's a reason briefings take so long with you pilots-."

"Operation Back Step is being planned to serve the purpose of halting the repair of a Zentraedi _Salan_ Class scout ship, downed in the Control Zone, by an organized force of rogue Zentraedi. This will be accomplished by direct aerial assault on the _Salan_ scout, and aerial assault on several rogue Zentraedi installations supporting the repair effort. Back Step will also involve ground assault and prisoner-taking actions by ASC troops."

A video screen on the wall behind Wang flashed map and satellite imagery of the AO along with stock imagery and recognition photos that likely came directly from the _REF Warship Identification Handbook_. Wang continued-

"Mode of attack on primary targets, air support requests, and follow-on targets of opportunity will be staggered wave strikes. Elements of the 801st Attack Wing from Nellis will be responsible for striking primary targets. Vigilante, Knight Hawk, and ASC squadrons will provide suppression of anti-aircraft fire. EW will be handled by the Bushwhackers out of China Lake. Tactical command and C2 functions will be run out of the JOC here at Salvador-."

A grumble of concern ran through the gathering of pilots, the substance of which was voiced by Lt. Col. Dalton-

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa…_ What, no AWACS, no JSTARS?"

Wang shook his head, "There's been no Zentraedi air activity on the _continent_ in six months. ASC ground-based radar control should be more than adequate, sir- or so says the chain."

"Fine, no AWACS- that's a shame, but acceptable- but c'mon, Wang-. A ground strike with no JSTARS? If there's Zentraedi mecha, we won't see `em until we're on top of `em. Not how I want to start my day anyway."

Wang visibly had greater difficulty explaining away the absence of the valued command and control asset of a Joint Surveillance and Targeting` ` Attack Radar System (JSTARS) aircraft.

"ASC and RDF satellite passes will be able to detect the presence of any mecha prior to the go-word.", Wang said, "And ASC forward observers will be working with RDF FACs to keep you appraised of the developing situation at the ground level."

"All of which is done automatically through InfoLink, if you have a JSTARS.", one of the pilots from the ranks of the Vigilantes pointed out.

Wang made a helpless gesture, "I'm sorry, but ASC declined both AWACS and JSTARS-. No dice."

From the rear of the room, someone said, "Yeah, well the ASC can suck a fart outta my ass…"

Winters spoke up, saying, "We'll still have limited InfoLink functions. We can just have the first wave linger on station to be eyes for the subsequent waves. Not perfect, but it will keep things in our favor as the dittos wake up. What kind of AA defense are we expecting, Wang?"

Wang was silently grateful that Winters had discretely handed the briefing back to him.

"Anti-aircraft defenses should be limited to small arms, crew-operated intermediate range weapons, and possibly shoulder-fired SAMs. Modest threats at best."

"Easy to say when you're not the one doing the tracer-tango.", Dalton replied, "No mecha?"

"There's no indication of any.", Wang replied.

"Okay, I'll hold you to that."

Wang proceeded with his briefing, happily nearing the end of it, "First briefing is at twenty-one hundred tonight. Ground crews will work the night with the ordinance crews for aircraft prep. Breakfast at zero-two forty-five, pre-flight briefing zero-three thirty, wheels up at zero-four forty-five. Any questions?"

"Would you have the answers?", Lt. Col. Drake asked from where he sat beside Mumuni.

"Not outside of what I've told you.", Wang said apologetically.

"Then I guess that's a wrap.", Drake said.

The assembly of pilots rose from their chairs and began to talk amongst themselves as they milled in small groups that radiated mild dissatisfaction and discontent.

Winters found Mumuni as Wang hastily retreated from the ready room. Apparently the S-3 wasn't willing to risk toenails by lingering in the midst of the disgruntled.

"Still hopeful that everything is on the level?", Winters asked his superior.

"We wouldn't exactly like having their JSTARS over our turf- if they had any.", Mumuni reasoned, "But still- less and less. What do you want to do about it though? There's nothing glaringly out of the norm."

"I was hoping you had a suggestion.", Winters replied.

"My suggestion is that we watch our butts like the new guy in a Turkish prison."

"Ah, a sodomy analogy- strangely appropriate. Anything else?"

"Yeah", Mumuni said, "I'm hungry-. Where's the mess around here?"

"I think we can find it.", Winters said, "Try the sea bass-."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

It had been well into the onset of dusk, making it virtually night in the jungle, when the Zentraedi supply train reached its destination.

Lt. Whilite, Sgt. Byerly, and 1st Squad had silently shadowed the Zentraedi supply party and their mules at a distance of less than seventy meters for hours- nearly losing their quarry twice to the dense cover of the rain forest, and nearly running into their rear once for the same reason after the column had halted unexpectedly. Still, as the Zentraedi had brought their mules and carts home into a modest encampment of tents and well-improvised huts, there was no indication that the aliens were any the wiser of the Rangers' presence.

The rogue Zentraedi were on the look-out though.

The Rangers had stopped their pursuit at the first indications of the encampment. An element of Zentraedi field SOP that warriors commonly and wisely adhered to was to never bed down, or have even a temporary stationary position without posting guards or sentries. The garrison, or inhabitants (their role and applicable title was somewhere in between) of this encampment were not looking to become the exception.

The trail's southern approach to the encampment was overlooked by a small hill, crowned with an entrenched guard post. In the dwindling light, it would have been easy to overlook the foxhole set into the foliage in the murkiness. With a Ranger's trained eye though, and the aide of night vision goggles the position was quickly identified in its ideal location.

Quiet study over the course of several minutes revealed the hole was occupied by three Zentraedi guards. Their own boredom and only moderate concern for maintaining perimeter integrity was key to discovering their numbers as it was the striking of a cigarette lighter to light cigarettes all around (a popular and wide-spread vice for Zentraedi who could acquire them) that silhouetted them clearly. Actually, the dim flicker of the single flame was nearly blinding to the Rangers through their NVGs, who saw the flame amplified to resemble a pale green starburst. Each subsequent puff by a guard on his cigarette that caused the tip to glow was adequate light with the image enhancement gear to see clearly the details of the Zentraedi faces.

Without night vision equipment of their own, and by virtue of the fact that they had taken up smoking- it was clear to Whilite that his squad was undetected. Had the mission been to infiltrate the encampment, a silenced burst from any of six M-35s would have been sufficient to open the approach for tactical exploitation. That was not the mission though.

1st Squad fanned right, moving closer to the now empty trail, but putting an extra buffering layer of distance between themselves and the guard post. Whilite trusted Byerly to find the position from which to best observe and hunkered down with her there as the rest of the squad formed a tight defensive circle.

The lieutenant and his top NCO surveyed what they could through the obstructions of undergrowth, across the fairly level plain into the Zentraedi encampment.

A stream meandered through the northern end of the camp from the west to the east- the western extreme being apparently for gathering of drinking water, and the eastern serving as a latrine as there were warriors at either place to demonstrate. Otherwise, the encampment was arranged as a typical Zentraedi camp. A large central tent served as a CP, insofar as a command post was needed here. A smaller cluster of tents was likely the dwellings of the officer and sub-officer grades- however rank still applied- and the larger arrangement of tents below the CP served the warrior grades.

Open sided tents stood at the center of the encampment, very near to the CP, and provided shelter for stacks and crates of supplies to which the arriving column that 1st Squad had trailed were now adding.

"That's odd.", Byerly said in a voice so quiet that Whilite was unsure whether she was soliciting a response.

Unable to clearly identify the "odd" element that had prompted the sergeant's comment, Whilite took the commander's prerogative, "What's odd?"

"I'm not saying it means anything-.", Byerly said qualifying her main point, "-but don't you think it's a little queer that they have a lot of tents of the same type?"

Whilite thought it over, and with Byerly pointing it out to him, suddenly it did seem out of place. Zentraedi in the field were as likely as not to have and use human manufactured tents for shelter in their encampments. Again, the aliens were not stupid and to have shelter was better than to go without it. The tents, like almost every other possession that rogue Zentraedi had, were sometimes bartered for with humans, and most often stolen in raiding or ambush activities. The result, normally, was enough tents to provide sufficient shelter all around- but with tents of varying size, shape, and manufacture.

In the encampment before 1st Squad, the type was almost uniform and the condition nearly pristine. They were standard-issue field tents from the inventory of the Army of the Southern Cross.

"Queer as a fourth year altar boy.", Whilite agreed as he scanned the encampment thoroughly with his NVGs- the images he saw recorded to a memory stick could be reviewed, copied in part or whole, edited, or discarded later.

At the center of the camp, Whilite's field of view crossed over the command tent as the mosquito netting flap opened and three figures emerged to inspect the substance of what the supply train had brought back on their detail.

The first emerging figure was a towering Zentraedi male whose sheer bulk emerging from the tent made Whilite think of tales he'd heard once of circus midgets emerging by the dozen from impossibly small cars for an audience's amusement. The male was relatively well groomed as Zentraedi went, shaved at least, and by the body language of the warriors who saw him in the encampment it was clear that he was of some importance if not the leader of the rogue band.

What Whilite was not prepared for was the emergence of the two figures who followed the giant. A man and a woman, both very human without question, wearing military issue field gear from the caps on their heads to the boots on their feet.

"Son of a bitch.", whispered Whilite, "CP, camp center."

"Already see it.", Byerly replied, "Are they ours, or-?"

"Can't tell. I was going to ask you."

As the two Rangers watched, the odd company of Zentraedi and two humans supervised the unloading of mules and carts, engaged in intense but distance-muted conversation. As in many instances in his life, Whilite found himself wishing for the ability to turn back time so he could have packed a shotgun microphone for the patrol. The highly sensitive listening device would have plugged directly into his PICS electronics package and had he had one at this moment would not be anguishing in the curiosity of what was being said sixty meters away.

An exchange between the Zentraedi rogue leader and the two humans was growing heated but not quite to the point of qualifying as angry. The Zentraedi gestured to the carts that had arrived and in particular to the long, narrow crates borne by them.

The man in BDUs opened one of the crates in what seemed a demonstrative act and from inside produced a copy of the venerable Kalashnikov assault rifle still in its grease packing. The Zentraedi seemed unimpressed and instead left the company of the two humans to examine the components of Zentraedi technology that had eluded Whilite's identification at first contact with the supply train hours ago on the trail.

Lt. Whilite continued to record the interaction between the Zentraedi and the humans, zooming in on all three as much as the NVGs would allow. He held out some faint hope that in extreme zoom, the image might reveal a unit patch or perhaps a name stenciled on a uniform- but the BDUs of the two humans were devoid of identifying markings- or perhaps they'd just been stripped of them.

In any case, Whilite wasn't looking for answers in earnest anymore but looking for verification of his suspicions. He'd seen enough to develop a strong suspicion at least.

Kalashnikov rifles were very common in The Control Zone, like most of the feral regions of the world, only most of these weapons had already seen years if not decades of use. Only one entity still possessed Kalashnikovs in their pristine, factory condition- a result of mass procurements made from places like Ukraine, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, and Romania in its hasty efforts to stand itself up as a force in a destabilized world- the Army of the Southern Cross.

The purpose of the exchange- not that it was in any way clear as to what the ASC was getting in return for weapons from Zentraedi, a scenario that seemed to Whilite like jackals giving lions teeth- was unclear to the lieutenant. He did not trouble himself at any length with the enigma though, as his duty was only to observe and report- not interpret. For the moment, he had much to report.

"Let's set our monitoring gear and get the hell out of here.", Whilite said quietly to Byerly, sounding to himself in retrospect perhaps a little too anxious to put distance between himself and the disquieting sight of ASC and Zentraedi collaboration.

In truth, it was unnerving, and Byerly's voice had the same sentiment.

"Roger that, sir."

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

Barracks 61.

2227hrs.

" _Lord, hear and answer these, my humble supplications._ "

Forty voices belonging to forty recruit trainees echoed as one off the bare barracks walls, the polished floor, and the corrugated metal ceiling onto the outside of which the Scottish rain had begun to fall again with thousands of soft but distinctive _pings_ like a distant corps of steel drummers frenziedly at work.

Dinner had been followed hard upon by an hour of classroom instruction on the RDF Codes of Military Conduct, which gave way to cleaning and laundry details of which Andy was part of the latter.

As other recruit trainees swept, mopped, and polished every conceivable surface of their new home, Andy and nine others were responsible for the washing, drying, sorting, starching, pressing, and folding (according to specific and detailed procedures) of the soiled and damp uniforms of the training platoon. Neat stacks (BDU shirts, trousers, undershirts, underwear, socks) were then returned to the bunks of the owners to be hung or stowed with the same meticulous care.

" _You dense wanker! How many centimeters were you instructed to leave between shirts in your locker?"_

 _"Six, sir!"_

 _"So if you can say it, why can't you execute it?"_

 _"I don't know, sir!"_

 _"Well, let's grapple with that mystery of the universe, shall we, precious?!"_

 _Shirts on plastic hangers, followed by two drawers worth of trousers, undergarments, belts and socks flew out across the recently swept and uncluttered floor._

 _"I'll be back in exactly sixty seconds, and if I find a single bit of your uniform out of order I'll have you on laundry detail until you bleed soap and sweat starch! Am I clear?!"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

Boots were then cleaned and stowed.

The trainee platoon was then granted five minutes to shower and prepare for last inspection.

Remarkably, and to Andy's relief, last inspection went smoothly and the recruit trainees of Training Platoon 6045 found themselves ordered into their bunks for the last exercise of the day- prayer.

" _Guide me to find the strength in myself to carry out your biddings, as I carry out the orders of those officers charged to lead me. Grant wisdom to those charged with instructing me that I might learn to serve my unit, my world, and thee, O Lord. Impart unto me your power that I might defend, rebuild, and preserve thy gifts in all their forms until peace reigns with thee, supreme. Amen!"_

Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae stood with his junior sergeants by the barracks door, showing his approval by the absence of contemptuous remark.

"I will see you in six hours!", O'Shae said matter-of-factly as the clock over the door indicated 2230, "Good night, my loves!"

 _"Good night, sir!"_

"At ease!", O'Shae ordered.

The lights went out with a click of the switch that sounded as loud as a pistol shot.

A collective sigh of relief, no doubt unintentional by all who contributed, floated formlessly in the darkness for a moment. All had somehow survived the first day.

As Andy lay there, not certain of whether his eyes were opened or closed in the pitch blackness, he could have sworn that Recruit Trainee Pamela Dunn on the bunk below him was whispering a question up to him through his mattress and pillow.

It would wait until tomorrow though- was his last thought as sleep took him quickly.

 **The Trendok 145 Robotech Factory**

The great automated facility functioned autonomously from the activities of those organic creatures inhabiting if, for whom it had been built to serve.

Despite the excessive processing power of innumerable computer systems aboard the facility, the Factory was unable to comprehend the notions of treachery that surrounded a surprise attack from within by Zentraedi forces, in the form of three destroyers and their crews, nearly two seasons ago.

The Factory had no sense of words like "treason" , or their underlying meaning. It recognized no distinction between the Zentraedi who had then and now still occupied it, and the ones who had conducted the failed operation other than the specifics of genetic manufacturing required to create each.

The Factory had only sensed the damage inflicted by the ensuing fighting done on itself, and had executed the needed repairs to maintain full operational functionality.

The Factory was fully functional once again and had been for quite some time- its legions of automated repair drones having worked relentlessly around the clock since the moment that the full scope of the battle damage had been assessed to repair it. Diagnostic checks run at regular intervals by the central Hypercomp computer verified that it was systemically capable of performing all of its required functions- and to the computer this was fulfillment of one of its central requirements for being.

The Hypercomp, and by the central computer it was to say that the whole Factory had no concept or consideration for its actions or activities outside of itself.

Purpose came from those it served.

Supreme General Krymina enjoyed the one-way isolation of the command bubble that stood over the operations center of the Factory much in the same way that similar structures stood over the command centers of Zentraedi warships.

The command bubble allowed the commanding officer of the 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl repose without complete disconnection. It provided her with proximity to information about all things related to her massive army that had swelled with the addition of "modified" norghil warrior castes to its ranks. From her post above the operations center, she had access to the information relevant to her position in high-level planning and conduct of operations without having to wade through the mire of the thousands of tedious actions and details associated with each of her orders.

For now (as it had been since the brief and shocking but ultimately futile incursion of the norghil against the Te'Dak Tohl aboard the Factory) plans for actions against Breetai and his new alien allies had been gelling toward finalization. Captured warships of two norghil armies had been refitted to new condition and rearmed by the Factory, and were now crewed with the "modified" norghil (beneficiaries of carefully selected, combat-oriented mental programming while in stasis before their Awakening) were on almost constant battle exercise as they had been for over a season to prepare for massive fleet action.

Even Jekketh, Krymina's _Trak'Khot_ "war hammer", had swayed Krymina's initial decision against it and had allowed her commander of ground forces to take his warriors on training exercises on a world some three days fold away. Despite her inclination to not want to scatter her forces in all directions on training (warriors required no "training" to perform simple and even, in the case of the modified norghil, advanced combat functions- their programming accounted for all of these skills) Jekketh's argument had been compelling and true to his nature, persistent.

Jekketh's warning had been passionate, but to the point-

" _Fleet action may defeat Breetai, and orbital bombardment may annihilate his alien allies- but the Invid we will hive to contend with in space, air, and on ground. We are best served to know our warriors are capable of it."_

Indeed, the warriors had come on line quickly and had been fitted out with supplies and equipment with equal speed. The choice had been between allowing Jekketh to have his way, to admitted eventual benefit, or to have the warriors languish in inactivity aboard landing ships awaiting real action.

It had not been any great act of military genius on Krymina's part to make the right decision. Jekketh would drive his warriors hard in battle- it was best to let him exercise them that way first.

Jekketh would see to the ground forces' preparedness, as Krymina's battle group commanders were now seeing to the readiness of her fleet. Each commander from the battle group flag to the scout ship commanding officer would have to operate flawlessly to deliver the crushing blow that Krymina sought against Breetai. The legendary norghil general's numbers were reduced, and the warrior's spirit no doubt diluted by the infusion of aliens- but she was not a fool to think that Breetai was not still a force to be reckoned with.

She had the means now, an overwhelmingly powerful fleet whose skills were being honed to a fine edge with every exercise. She also had the plan that with final tweaks for the remaining "unknowns" would give her the decisive advantage.

Krymina would not fall victim to the impulsiveness that was in no small part a contributing factor to Dolza's defeat to the same enemy alliance. Krymina's selected engagement area would be the orbital plain between the third and fourth planets of the alien star system- out of the reach of planetary defenses and with room to maneuver. Breetai would recognize that the ultimate target was the alien world- and that he would have to fight for it either on the level field of relatively open space, or in orbit around it. Breetai would have to choose between the options of being crushed outright, or slowly bled to ineffectiveness.

So was the plan, and Krymina would be prepared for either eventuality.

Krymina was considering retiring to her quarters aboard the Factory as she could not remember how many hours she had kept herself on duty, and she wanted to be fresh for the interminable reviews of exercise after action reports that she and her staff would review in the morning. Thoughts of this made turning in sound like an excellent idea.

Then the chime to the command bubble sounded.

Few in the command chain or on Krymina's staff would attempt to interact with her directly, even fewer would make the attempt face-to-face. She knew it was Sub-General Caldettas before she responded.

"Come."

The guarded door to the command bubble slid open and Caldettas entered, allowing the door to slide shut before he spoke,

"Supreme General Krymina-. Action Commander Kevtok has made contact."

Instantly, Krymina's interest was seized. Deployed immediately following the norghil attack on the Factory, the reconnaissance mission had nonetheless been on a well-defined timeline, and they had missed the initial two contact points of announcing their arrival in the operational area, and of landing.

The information they were to provide for the actual planetary assault was valuable, but not operationally critical- the plan could proceed without them. Still, their failure to make contact had suggested that the mission had failed before it had started and the team lost. Krymina, in a strictly professional way, had regretted the loss of Action Commander Kevtok as he had proven to be a highly effective action officer with potential for promotion to greater tasks.

Now it seemed her regrets were premature.

"Excellent.", Krymina said, "Though the mission is behind schedule now. I assume that there were difficulties?"

Caldettas handed Krymina an electronic slate that could serve any of a score of purposes, saying, "Contact was made by text message on priority, high frequency channel. Authentication codes have been confirmed- this is from Kevtok. He offered no explanation, but the message is- interesting."

Krymina knew the substance of the message had to be important, and that Caldettas wanted her to take it in for herself without his bias of interpretation- otherwise he would have simply reported it to her.

She opened the two-line, electronic message and read it quickly.

She stopped and then read it again before closing the message.

A moment of silence passed between the two officers before Krymina issued an order to her executive officer.

"Summon the operational planning staff, _immediately._ "

231


	6. Operation: Back Step

**Chapter Five**

 **Operation: "Back Step"**

"The popular misconception about the intelligence services- _any_ intelligence service, really- is that there is some kind of all-knowing, all-seeing eye apparatus of technology and people in place and at work twenty-four hours a day. Well, work _technically_ does go on around the clock, and elements of the apparatus _are_ always operating- but they're far from omnipotent."

"The way I like to explain it to friends and acquaintances at cocktail parties- sugar coated, as not to scare them- is that being in intelligence is a lot like being one of those forest rangers up in a look-out tower watching for fires. You can use the naked eye and have a broad view without much depth, or you can use binoculars and gain a lot of depth but lose the breadth in trade. You can't have both most often. Also, you have to have that random element of _luck_ \- that you're even looking in the right direction at the right time. Remember now, this is the _sugar coated_ version."

"To close the loop with the fire-watcher analogy, intelligence is also similar in that you're looking for the _symptom_ of the problem- smoke. Even kids can tell you, when you have smoke, you already have a fire. Some fires are just bigger than others."

CDR Anne E. Weitzel (REF)

Senior Intelligence Analyst,

Robotech Defense Forces- Intelligence Command

 **ASC Salvador Base**

0421hrs.

Floodlights shone from all angles on the tarmac, offsetting the jungle darkness with the luminous glow of humidity-saturated air being bombarded with millions of candlepower watts of light. Within the aura, one would have been excused for not believing that the sun's first rays could not be expected for another hour.

In the wash of artificial light though, RDF ground crews were clearing away the last of the ordinance handling equipment with the aide of a limited number of ASC personnel. The relatively small number of Southern Cross flight line workers was less of a result of the intangible feeling of mistrust increasingly fostered toward them by the RDF officers (principally Winters and Mumuni), and more a practical one in that Salvador Base required its own staff to service its own aircraft.

The combined 32 Valkyries of Knight Hawk Squadron and Vigilante Squadron had been towed out of their stand-down, parked formation and into staggered lines with two full wingspans' distance between ships- primarily to offset a chain-reaction explosion scenario should an ordinance accident occur, or surprise attack of some kind catch the fighters on the ground. Laden heavily to the point where all six hard-point pylons of each Veritech was filled to capacity (though the load in total still had each ship under its maximum take-off weight) with the missiles, bombs, and rockets that had been selected by the mission planners as most appropriate for the squadrons' role in Operation Back Step, wings drooped with the burden.

SEAD, or _Suppression of Enemy Air Defense_ and "close air support" meant essentially that the Knight Hawks and Vigilantes would take head-on the brunt of any resistance that the strike force might encounter on target. An essential role to protect the rugged, yet slower and therefore more vulnerable A-9C Adventurer II attack bombers that bore the munitions to accomplish the objectives of Back Step and were the mission critical assets- it was still inglorious to those who had answered the call to the fighter pilot's profession.

Winters, as he led the rest of 623rd (minus Maj. "Scooter" Phillips who was engaged in "The Ritual" to ensure a successful mission) out of the flight prep building into the sultry, pre-dawn air, reminded himself that there were specialties to be applied in Back Step that received less recognition and were at least as vital and agreeably more dangerous. The thought was prompted by the powerful, throaty rumble of the EA-9D electronic warfare variant of the Adventurer II, as the EW contingent of the 294th Bushwhackers Electronic Warfare Squadron barreled down an unseen runway beyond the flight line and into the dark, morning sky.

They, like their armed attack-bomber cousins, would rendezvous with a nearby KC-10 air tanker to top off their fuel before joining up with the oldest airframe still in military service, the turboprop driven "Hercules" EC-130H which would provide EW cover for the strike group into and out of the target area. The Bushwhackers, trained and equipped to provide closer support would form up with the strike waves just outside of the AO and pick up the EW responsibilities from there through the time of departure from the target area. Winters had not heard the departure of the long-legged, but lumbering EC-130H loaded with its advanced EW and electronic monitoring and collecting gear as it had occurred during the early minutes of his pre-flight briefing over an hour before. The Hercules, callsign "Mystic", required the advanced departure though to arrive at the AO in time to support the swifter strike aircraft.

Between Mystic and the Bushwhackers, as theory went, any enemy that might be searching for an inbound air strike with the electronic eyes of radar would be blinded by the variety of electronic countermeasures the EW aircraft brought to bear and therefore be unable to mount a coordinated defense. So went the theory that was usually correct.

Usually.

Winters, never having flown anything but a fighter with the exception of a trainer in his RAF flight school days, could not imagine entering a combat zone armed only with jamming equipment and focused energy devices. Ballocks, he resolved, it took ballocks- but was decidedly inglorious, more so than SEAD.

Still, Lt. Col Dalton summed up the collective feelings of the Valkyrie pilots best, and showed that he'd been thinking the same as Winters as he said, quite unprompted-

"This blows goat nuts."

"I didn't realize that you were experienced to make the comparison.", Col. Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni (her callsign allegedly being because she was quick, sharp, and deadly- though in moments of levity, Winters enjoyed insisting that it was because she was quick to "snap") remarked sharply.

"Squadron hazing.", Dalton replied without missing a beat, "It was that or fly cargo planes."

"But you did it so _eagerly_.", Winters commented to his XO as he paused for a moment with Mumuni.

"He was a nice goat."

Mumuni rolled her eyes with a grimace of distaste, "You two are twisted."

"Happily so.", Winters replied, "It seems you got the sweet assignment this morning, Ganyet. Don't screw the pooch now."

"We won't.", Mumuni replied, speaking for her entire squadron whose "sweet assignment" was SEAD for the strike on the downed _Salan_ scout ship.

It was a sweet assignment in Winters' mind, especially in comparison to the duty drawn by Knight Hawk Squadron- supporting the strikes on the installations supporting the repair of the Zentraedi vessel, which was to say shooting up tents, supply piles, and corrugated steel sheds in abscesses within the dense rain forest. Vital, true- but somewhat less exciting when reviewing gun camera footage.

"Chalk it up to rank.", Mumuni said in what was supposed to be a conciliatory statement.

"Just keep rubbing salt in the wound.", Winters groaned as he plucked with a finger the silver eagle on Mumuni's flightsuit collar.

Mumuni raised her helmet before her like a mug of beer, "Good hunting, Jack. Cheers."

"Cheers.", Winters replied, tapping his own helmet against Mumuni's, "Good hunting."

As Mumuni walked off toward her flight of Valkyries, she half-turned and added, "Oh, and don't _you_ screw the pooch either."

"We blow goat nuts, don't you remember?", Winters called after her before the engines of fighters all around began to drone to life.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?", Dalton asked.

"Blowing goat nuts?"

"No, not that.", Dalton said, unfazed, "Our little assignment for the day."

"I don't follow, Freddy- it's too late, or too early- too something."

"The whole thing with the Cavaliers the other day- them feeling us out and all, and then when game time comes, we're shooting up the bush instead of moving on the main objective."

"We _are_ hitting main objectives, Freddy.", Winters reminded him, trying to ignore the distinctions between striking a space cruiser and an improvised Zentraedi encampment, "Weren't you at the briefing?"

"Still, it seems like a lot of hub-bub about nothing.", Dalton said, "Maybe we really twisted Braddock's tit somehow? I can't imagine how, but he opted for the Vigilantes instead?"

Winters shook his head as he noticed Scooter emerge from the flight prep building, jogging spryly toward him. He said to his XO, "You choose odd times to think about the strangest things, Freddy- do you know that? It probably just had to do with rank- can we leave it at that? Besides, he doesn't even have his own boy on the target."

Dalton considered it. True, Lt. Col. Mathias and his Cavaliers were _not_ assigned to the cruiser strike, but rather flying in tandem waves with Knight Hawk Squadron against supporting facilities. It was possible, Dalton speculated from the pragmatic stand, that Braddock felt the criticality of the target necessitated giving up some of the glory of having one of his squadrons covering the Adventurer IIs and allowing the Valkyries to cover as they were better acquainted with the attack squadrons, but then again-.

"Yeah, well Mathias is an asshole."

"True.", agreed Winters as Scooter arrived with a hop-scotch skipping, "Are we good to go then, Scooter?"

" _Oh_ , it was a _good one_ , Jack- a five-pounder , easy. Should be clear sailing."

Dalton shook his head in revulsion, "TMI, Scooter, TMI."

Winters looked up into the heavens and said, "Well, we've got a plan, the stars are in alignment, and Scooter's colon has given its blessing. I think we're set to go. Good hunting, Freddy- be a chap and pick up a quart of milk on the way home, would you?"

The CO and XO touched helmets, Dalton saying, "Will do. Watch out for The Golden BB."

Lyle stood passively by as Winters made the rounds about _Marilyn_ , tugging firmly on the hard point mounted munitions and checking the airframe for any visible signs for concern. Naturally, there were none as Lyle well knew better than the fighter's pilot. He could have recited the catalog of scratches in the Valkyrie's skin for Winters by memory- had he allowed there ever to be scratches.

"Care if I take your girl for a ride?", Winters asked as he climbed the ladder to the cockpit.

"Just bring `er back no worse fer wear, `n `er cherry intact.", Lyle said, conditionally granting the request.

Winters settled into the seat, saying to the idle fighter, "Oh, love- he just doesn't have a clue, does he?"

Lyle assisted Winters with his harnesses and the connection of his suit's air lines and computer systems cables while all the while wearing an expression of business that did not entirely mask something just below it.

"What?", Winters asked as Lyle drew the harness straps firmly, almost painfully taut.

"Just be careful up there.", Lyle warned.

"Scooter gave the mission his approval, what more do you want?", Winters asked, "And for that matter, I'm getting a lot of this lately- what gives?"

"Ah heard y're flyin' with that Mathias asshole.", Lyle said, "Somethin' `bout that cowhand ain't right. Just be sure it ain't you who finds out what it is, awlright, pard'?"

"I'll keep it in my forethoughts.", Winters assured the aircraft captain, "Back off now, unless you're coming along for the ride."

Lyle play-socked the CO in the shoulder, "Go kick some ass."

Lyle tumbled down the ladder in the functional yet graceless manner that was his alone, and released the ladder's locking mechanism once he was firmly on the ground. Winters started the computerized start sequence as the ladder retracted into place with a solid "click".

 _Marilyn'_ s engines gave the initial, deep, bass whir of the compressors spinning up followed by the pop and whine of protoculture-fusion ignition. The cockpit MFDs flashed rapidly through their pre-flight diagnostics and quickly showed the pilot a favorable status for take-off.

"Babble-.", Winters said into the radio mike in his mask to the Salvador Base air control tower, "-This is Knight Hawk Leader requesting instructions to taxi for section take-off. Over."

"Knight Hawk Leader, Babble. Stand by for instructions, the Cavaliers are moving into the pattern. Over."

As the tower instructed Winters to hold, Mathias's squadron began to roll on the tarmac toward the runway apron.

The last occasion that Winters had to see Mathias and his men in aircraft, they had been in the sleek, high speed F-2 Phantom fighter/interceptor. For escorting transports, or in the case of the incident in question- mixing it up with Valkyries- the F-2 was the superior choice in the Southern Cross inventory. The attributes that made the Phantom ideal for air-to-air operations: high-speed performance, low-drag internal weapons bays, and a light airframe designed for agility- made it as clearly the wrong choice for the supporting role in Back Step.

For ground attack roles, the more angular, (and to Winters' tastes and thinking) just plain odd-looking F-1B Specter fighter was much better suited. Perhaps the original intention of the Specter's design team had been for it to fill a light, fighter/attack-bomber role as its twin over-wing air intakes and four hard-point pylons situated under the swept but broad wings leant the Specter to just that role. The ASC, ever-aware of perceptions though, opted to give the Specter the "F" designation as a pure fighter aircraft, thus claiming the prestige of having three distinct fighter types in their air force. The Specter was what it was though, Winters knew- you couldn't make an owl into a hawk by stretching his head and cropping his tail. The F-3D Corsair III (which Winters had not seen at Salvador, or even in the air actually except for once at a joint air show some two years before when the new ASC fighter was first coming on-line) was another matter- it was not so much of a hawk as an eagle- but that was of no matter this morning.

Winters watched the Cavaliers roll by in single file with their wings loaded with AGM-40 Scorpion missiles (the heaviest AGM the Specter could carry with roughly half the warhead of the Maverick Mk-4s carried by the Valkyries) and the same Hydra II rocket pods carried by their RDF distant relatives. Lt. Col. "Mojo" Mathias was at the head of the line like the mother of fifteen ugly ducklings who all bore a strong resemblance to mama, and as he did so, Winters was sure that he saw the other officer wink at him under an exaggerated salute.

 _Asshole._

Winters sighed and made himself as comfortable as he could in his seat. There was no rush. The Zentraedi were going nowhere, and to the best of anyone's knowledge, they had not even the slightest hint that the Back Step strike force was coming.

 _Poor sods._

 **RDF Intelligence Annex, RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

" _Intel: We drink more coffee before 6 A.M. than most people drink all day…"_

So read the laser printer-generated sign above the well-used Krupps coffee machine in the corner of Commander Anne E. Weitzel's managerial cube. Directly to the right of both the sign (a joke from a subordinate that CDR Weitzel had just decided she had liked and would keep up) and the coffee machine that had inspired it was a framed reproduction of the Alan Pinkerton Detective Agency symbol with its unblinking eye and the motto in bold of, "We Never Sleep".

It had been purely coincidence that Weitzel had hung the Pinkerton sign next to the coffee machine, or was it the other way around? In either case, it had been after a sixteen hour day that had been mostly coffee-fueled and had left the senior analyst's eyes and brain feeling like they would explode that she had happened to notice serial, logical flow of the message on the sign to the left into the sign on the right.

It had taken her a couple of minutes after the discovery to clean from her desk and workstation the coffee (ironically, but appropriately enough) that had squirted from her nose in stress-relieving laughter.

Putting pieces together was her trade in the larger world of military intelligence though.

As a senior analyst in the Intelligence Fusion Division, IFD, (nicknamed by an earlier analyst, a _Star Trek_ fan as it were, "The Warp Core"- which was quickly bastardized by the rapier wits of other divisions to "The Warped Corps") it was Weitzel's tasking day-in and day-out to work with her team to take seemingly random bits of intelligence data from other divisions as well as other ministries and entities, and to see if seemingly related bits would combine to form a cohesive picture. Analogous to trying to assemble an image from the "spare" pieces of a thousand jigsaw puzzles, the job was mostly long on investment and short on return.

But there were moments from time to time.

"Hey, Anne- you wanna look at something for me?"

Weitzel looked away from the screen of her workstation that was in the final stages of logging onto the secure office network and found Captain Gary Shire, RDF, standing in her cubicle door.

While in an operational setting, it would have been unusual for an officer to call a superior two grades of rank higher by the first name, this was an office setting and when more protocol-oriented eyes were not watching, things tended to be somewhat relaxed.

"Sure Gary-.", Weitzel said with clearly exaggerated enthusiasm, "It's a quarter past five and I haven't had my first cup yet, so I'd _love_ to look at whatever it is!"

Heavily armored against Weitzel's salvos of sarcasm, Shire crossed the floor space of the commander's cube with a step and a half, and handed a single sheet of paper to his superior.

"This came from the monitoring logs of a listening bird that flies the Control Zone pattern.", Shire said, "Intercept time was 2243 Zulu, and _yes_ \- it's already been on the SIGLINT desk."

Weitzel read quickly the basic information offered by the log print-out: the time stamp, position, listening mode and device, etc- looking for a particular data element.

"Gary-.", Weitzel said, wholly unimpressed when she found what she was looking for, "-This transmission was a tenth of a second long… If this is supposed to be some kind of a _eureka_ moment, then come back after I've had a pot of joe and I'll try again."

"Well, sure, a tenth of a second- but did you see the band it was intercepted on?", Shire asked, prodding Weitzel toward further investigation.

Weitzel looked at the print-out again, paused for a moment in thought, and then said to her subordinate, "Okay- so, it's on an established Zentraedi hyperspace priority channel. Our Big Ears intercept a thousand or more outbound calls a day on those bands. You're still not blowing my skirt up, Gary."

"That's what I thought too at first.", Shire agreed, "Y'know, _E.T. phone home… Come get me you fuckers…_ Then SIGLINT added the bit that the message had double encryption at least, possibly _triple_. Now call me crazy or say I'm way off base, but if I'm making a call for help- I want it to be in the clear, don't I?"

"And SIGLINT ran this by-?", Weitzel began.

Shire picked up the thought and finished it, "-Cryptology, yeah. Torrez took the transmission down to Cryptology by hand and turned it over to, what's his name- you know, the wormy little bastard who all but came surgically attached to the new Craig they've got down there? You know the one."

"Yeah, looks like Waldo.", Weitzel said, "And Big Bertha couldn't crack it?"

Shire shook his head, "No, not yet. They've been running it against every algorithm they've got since about 0115, and _nada_. So, what we're looking at is a previously unseen cipher on an outbound Zentraedi priority hyperspace channel. Forget that the transmission was a tenth of a second long, this is still something that we should keep near the top of the pile."

Weitzel nodded her agreement, "Yeah, the top of the pile is a good place to start. –There's no position fix on the point of origin for this-."

Shire shook his head, "No, hyperspace transmission- that's hard enough to fix, and then being so short. Hell, if the bird hadn't been passing directly over, we probably would have missed it altogether."

 _Directly overhead_ , Weitzel knew, meant a satellite at a range of several thousand kilometers, which in turn translated into an area on the ground also of several thousand kilometers square. Hardly enough to put a pin into a map. But still, there was something from some message or other that Weitzel couldn't remember all the details of that seemed to allude to two matching pieces in this new puzzle.

Weitzel found herself wanting to dig now.

"Gary, do me a favor-.", Weitzel said, placing the paper on the "holy altar" (a patch of uncluttered desktop she reserved for items of priority), "Get the boys in Operations to give you a rough circle on the ground that this could have come out of. Bring it up as soon as you can, would you?"

"Sure thing.", Shire complied as the Krupps machine gurgled the last of the water in the reservoir and transformed it into brain-fuel , "Is it worth a cup of coffee as a reward?"

"Yeah, you can buy me a cup of coffee later too-."

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

The day had started so well, or so thought Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson, 6045th Training Platoon.

0430 had snuck up on him as though the six hours of sleep had been the blink of an eye. It wasn't necessarily the hour at which Andy had found himself roused that was disagreeable- he and Cedric had known that this would be part of training life and had prepared for it. It was the dual assault of the barracks' powerful florescent lighting coming on, accompanied by the thunderous, verbal fusillade of the training sergeants.

0430-0440 had been the frenzied rush to shower, shave, and dress for first assembly and inspection and 0445. By 0450 the platoon was plowing head-long (and in the case of several recruit-trainees, bogging down) into calisthenics.

Warm-up stretches, ten minutes.

Push-ups, 25.

Sit-ups, 25.

Jumping-jacks, 40.

Deep-knee bends, 25.

Squat-thrusts, 25.

Then it was time to jog- nothing extraordinary, 3 kilometers.

Again, Andy and Cedric had anticipated some of the physical trials of basic training, and between years of school football and a deliberate attempt to prepare had come to Falkirk with a level of conditioning that precluded them from the hell experienced by those who could not make it past 23 push-ups, or who began to fall out on the run. The training sergeants, including O'Shae much to Andy's surprise, kept the platoon to pace through the misty hills of the Scottish morning as they jogged the three kilometer course. In truth, they more than kept the pace- they kept the pace with the additional burden of maintaining the psychological strain of verbal battery on the recruit trainees who didn't manage to keep step.

Andy had no such problem, however the distraction of noticing the fit of Pamela Dunn's sweat trousers as she ran the position in front of him did nearly bring down O'Shae's wrath on him once.

" _Head up, boy-o! Fake pride if ye haven't any!"_

 _Damn hormones._

Andy had been saved from the perils of inappropriate observations by a new torment that O'Shae had dug out of his bag of tricks unexpectedly and dropped squarely on his new, favorite pet project.

" _Well, good morning, Aunt Moggie-. Enjoying our morning stroll, are we?"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

At least Cattermole had learned to feign respect.

" _Nothing wise to say this morning, Aunt Moggie?"_

 _"No sir!"_

O'Shae wasn't going to let the moment pass, and given his impression of Cattermole from a hurried dinner the night before, it was only a matter of time before the recruit trainee mouthed back. Andy prayed against it happening. He willed it not to come, but O'Shae was masterful.

" _Tell me, Aunt Moggie- how is it when you say `sir' it comes out like `asshole'?"_

 _"Practice, SIR!"_

 _"Oh, we're in for some times together, aren't we, Aunt Moggie? Just you me and the platoon-. I do love the sound of your voice though! I think everyone does, so you're going to lead us in a cadence, aren't you?"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

 _"Well, any time now, love!"_

Andy felt his spine freeze through knowing that had he been in Cattermole's boots at that moment he would have been a dead man. The training sergeants had led the recruit trainees in several cadences fit to keep the jogging pace during the same exercise the day before- but none had stuck yet. What came from the recruit trainee's lips next would determine, Andy was certain, whether the platoon's run ended in ten minutes or ten hours.

 _Oh, mind your mouth, you wanker._

From the first note, it sounded distant but familiar- and in an odd way it worked.

Best of all, as Cattermole began to belt out the improvised cadence, the platoon of adolescents were able to pick it right up and join in.

" _The world looks mighty good to me-._

 _-`Cause Tootsie Rolls are all I see!_

 _Whatever it is I think I see-._

 _Becomes a Tootsie Roll to me!"_

Andy felt the weight of the moment melt away as Cattermole's return fire shattered with insolent humor the atmosphere O'Shae had so carefully crafted. Andy's only concern was stifling the overwhelming desire to cackle at the absurdity of it all.

" _Tootsie Roll, caramel, chocolatey-chew!"_

 _"HUH!"_

 _"Tootsie Roll, I think I'm in love with you!_

 _Whatever it is I think I see-._

 _Becomes a Tootsie Roll to me!"_

O'Shae, magnanimous beyond reproach in accepting that he had gotten exactly what he had asked for, still needed the last, parting shot-

" _Aunt Moggie, you are a daft cunt!"_

 _"Yes sir!"_

Training Platoon 6045 had not been run for ten hours, but rather had returned to the marshalling grounds outside of Barracks 61 for cool-down stretching and by 0630 the mess hall's serving line was passing the recruit trainees through.

"You are a fucking wank, you know that, don't you, Aunt Moggie?", Recruit Trainee Kingsley had said as he and the group from the previous night again found themselves together at a table- pounding down breakfast.

Perhaps breakfast had been the punishment that O'Shae had rushed the platoon on to in response to Cattermole's impudence, Andy thought. No longer under the ogre of hunger that had menaced him before his last meal, Andy was able to better appreciate (or _depreciate_ ) the mess hall's offerings:

Scrambled eggs, possibly real.

Three strips of bacon, probably not.

Fried potatoes and onions with not enough salt or pepper.

Fruit cocktail.

Reconstituted, powdered milk.

Tea.

Andy wasn't so foolish as to not recognize the privileges of his upbringing- namely eggs that you knew came from a chicken, or bacon that you knew had once grunted and run around on four hooves. Nor was he foolish enough to not realize that many, if not most of the other recruit trainees at the table had probably (Cedric he was certain of) gone to bed or started their day without a meal many times in their lives.

There was something in the way that a person who didn't know when or from where their next meal was coming shoveled down their food that identified them clearly. It was probably that origin that had Cattermole at his breakfast with a focus that precluded response to Kingsley's remark.

Andy felt no guilt about the prosperity that his father's life of hard work had brought his family, but he knew better than to flaunt it here. He also knew better than to insult those who had come from less and who still had less outside of the world of RDF RTC-32 by not cleaning the sectioned compartments of his tray of the food he'd been provided.

"Eh, you cunts-.", Recruit Trainee Kingsley said as he folded his "bacon" over into his eggs, mashing them into a single paste of red-brown flecked yellow with the dull side of his fork, "I's talkin' to that thick'ead Torgison whiles we was on the hopper this mornin', `n you know what he says to me?"

"You're a murderer of the King's English?", Cattermole suggested.

"Pipe it, pip-squeek or y'll be wishin' y're back in the rattle.", Kingsley replied with a powerful shove to the smaller recruit trainee that was still playful, "No, `e says to me that his brother went through this very RTC one year ago `n had the ole man as `is senior trainin' sergeant. You cunts know what they called `im?"

"Haven't a clue.", Cedric replied for the group, now moderately interested in the details of Kingsley's story.

"Word `as it that they call `im, The Little Prick from Limmerick-.", Kingsley said with his brutish, snorting laugh that Andy could imagine him using as he pulled the wings off of flies as a small (relatively speaking) child, "Fuckin' li'l Irish wanker."

"I prefer _sir_.", Cattermole commented, getting a laugh from the others.

The recruit trainees finished their breakfast quickly as there wasn't much time. Classroom instruction was scheduled next, followed by God-only-knew-what.

God, and of course "The Little Prick from Limmerick".

 **The Amazon River Basin**

Lt. Whilite could feel that he was tired, but wasn't feeling the _effects_ of being tired.

He had felt the first twinges of understandable fatigue an hour or so into the four hour march that had brought 1st Squad back to the 3rd Platoon listening post from the Zentraedi encampment. Up to that time, and thereafter too many thoughts had been spinning around the platoon leader's brain to fully feel the warning that his body was sending or heed the wisdom of his training sergeants in infantry basic and Ranger School:

 _It's better to be dry than wet._

 _It's better to be fed than hungry._

 _It's better to be rested than weary._

 _It's better to be prepared than to improvise._

Simple, but sage-like wisdom as sage-like wisdom sometimes was. Whilite for the time being would meet the sage halfway as he spoke by scrambled satellite com-link with Capt. Nguyen at the Echo Company CP a little over ten kilometers away.

Whilite squeezed more cold, MRE "Cheese Omelet With Peppers and Onions" (allegedly) out of the corner of the entrée packet which he'd cut open with his KaBar into his mouth and washed it down with gritty, powdered orange drink mixed with a finger in a canteen cup. _The breakfast of champions._

"-No ASC patches, insignia, nothing?", Nguyen asked through the secure channel as at the CP, he reviewed the images and video that Whilite had transmitted moments earlier.

"No sir.", Whilite replied, "We could have missed something, but we got them from all sides. I'm only guessing ASC because of the Kalashnikovs they were handing off to Zeke. They were military though- ours or ASC, I'm sure they were military- too clean to be guerillas or arms dealers."

There was a brief silence from the other end of the channel, "The question remains, who?"

"Well, sir, maybe we can figure that out-.", Whilite suggested, "With your permission, I'd like to deviate from the mission plan and put a detachment onto monitoring that encampment. Maybe see if we can do a prisoner snatch toward the end of operations- if we can arrange for a slick to lift us out-."

Nguyen was quick to deny the request, "No, Lieutenant, the sweep pattern for this operation will require full commitment from all of Echo Company. It was a good find, this encampment- your second- but establishing rogue movements in the AO take precedence. Do not deviate from the mission plan."

"Yes sir, I understand", Whilite said, "-But I feel this is worth following up on, sir."

"As do I, Lieutenant.", Nguyen agreed, "But mission objectives first. We can monitor your encampment by the remote cameras you left, for now. If time allows later, we will consider other options."

"Yes sir-.", Whilite said, and was ready to sign off when he heard the sound.

Distant and muffled at first, it continued to build on itself in the eerie dark that always preceded first light- especially in the jungle, Whilite was finding. The sound was a low rumble distorted by the dense canopy, but which became recognizable in the span of a few moments as jet engines. _A lot_ of jet engines.

True to the physics of sound, the bass rumble of the jets carried farther than their shrill whine which wasn't heard until the flight passed nearly overhead, unseen but low enough to stir the birds from their perches.

Then the sound rose and fell with the passage of distinctive waves before it finally began to fade into an even lower rumble under the law of the Doppler Effect and subsided into nothing.

"What was that, Lieutenant?", Nguyen asked.

Realizing that he had been holding the microphone key of the receiver-style handset to the satellite radio open, Whilite replied, "Jets, sir- human by the sound of them. Were we expecting air traffic through these parts?"

"Nothing scheduled that was reported to our chain.", Nguyen said, an air of concern in his voice, "It could be nothing."

"It sounded like a lot of nothing, Captain.", Whilite said, "And they're going wherever in a hurry."

Nguyen showed no desire to speculate on the obscure, saying finally, "Proceed on your assignment, Lieutenant- with caution. Next radio contact will be twelve-hundred hours. Out."

Whilite shut down the satellite radio and handed the handset to the Ranger whose detail it was to carry the coms.

The lieutenant would follow orders and continue on assignment, on schedule though curiosity about the previous night's discovery burned intensely within him. Captain Nguyen's instructions had been without room for interpretation, as had been the warning for caution.

The ASC could quite possibly be conducting undeclared operations in the Control Zone, which was fair in Whilite's mind because technically speaking (as reported activities went) neither he, nor his Rangers were here either. Happening across an ASC patrol could be embarrassing, if not disastrous.

The flight of jets that had just passed overhead had sounded as though they were out on serious business too, and Whilite didn't want to find himself accidentally on the receiving end of that either.

The jungle canopy rolled rapidly by beneath Winters like waves in a boundless sea. The sky to the east was growing light, its pale lavender wash swallowing the stars at and just above the horizon. Day would break soon- the last many unsuspecting Zentraedi would ever see on this world or any for that matter.

Both strike groups- "Savage", the cruiser strike group to which Mumuni's Vigilantes and the 77th "Harpies" Attack Squadron were attached, and the "Cannibal" group- charged with striking the support intallations- that included the Knight Hawks, the 403rd Grey Owls and the 333rd Half Satans belonged to had formed up into attack posture. The 149th Thunderclaps, also out of Nellis with the rest of the 801st Attack Wing would break off and loiter as on-station reserve.

Despite Winters' personal opinions about Mathias, he had admired the perfect station keeping of he and his squadron on the flight out to the AO. Like a display squadron on a PR tour, they had held their positions in formation flawlessly, even to the point of bouncing in unison to the same minor pockets of air turbulence.

Of course, formation flying did not detract in any significant way from Mathias being an asshole in Winters' mind, but there was some solace in seeing that the Cannibal Group leader was capable of professional conduct of himself and his squadron and not just an adventure-crazed buckaroo.

Lt. Col. "Mojo" Mathias was in tactical command of the Cannibal Strike Group.

Winters didn't like it, and had initially had some difficulty getting his head around the idea of following the ASC O-5 into combat, but it was an ASC operation primarily. Winters had not spoken to Mumuni on the subject of and did not know her feelings about she, a full colonel now, following Lt. Col. "Torro" Cortez of Gremlin Squadron- with tactical command over the Savage Strike Group- into battle.

Winters suspected that it did not enter into her thoughts too much.

It didn't enter into his much either, except that it was Mathias that he was following.

Of course both Mathias and Cortez only enjoyed _tactical_ command- for the forward, "on target" calls. Operational Command was still with General Braddock ("Chieftain" for the purposes of Back Step) back at the Joint Operation Center at Salvador. Winters wasn't certain how much better that made him feel, but at least he knew that Wang was also in the JOC and would be watching their backs.

"Three minutes on target.", Cortez announced from the leading strike position in Savage Group. A flight of the Bushwhackers in their EA-9D Adventurer IIs actually had the lead in an EW covering position ahead of the strike package, and would soon be blazing an invisible trail of electronic interference for the Savages to follow to target. Winters could not see the leading Bushwhackers from his vantage point, nor could he see Mumuni- though he could make out the silhouettes of other Vigilante Valkyries in the middle and rear strike waves of Savage Group.

The fighters stood out in clear contrast to the bulkier outlines of the A-9C Adventurer II attack variants, sometimes referred to as the "Heavier Harriers" by those long enough in the tooth to remember what a Harrier was. The nickname was actually not inappropriate as the A-9C's basic design had preceded the arrival of the _SDF-1_ and Robotechnology, finding its roots in the troubled times just before The Global War. A joint NATO venture, primarily between the British Royal Navy and the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps, the Adventurer II (though no once could ever pin the name "Adventurer" to an operational aircraft) was designed to satisfy a medium attack-bomber role with a VTOL capability. First produced jointly by British Aerospace and "The Ironworks" of Northrop-Gruman- the two-man A-9 had proven itself in The Global War to be capable (as its heritage suggested) to be rugged, combat-survivable, and mission-capable in even the most extreme conditions. Since the A-9A, the Adventurer II had not changed significantly with the noted exception of improved avionics, electronics, and the replacement of its original Rolls Royce jet combustion engines with more modern Pratt-Whitney first generation fusion power-plants.

The wings of the A-9Cs of the Harpies in Savage Group were burdened with the menacing, dark forms of armor-piercing (or "bunker-busting"- though Zentraedi were not in the practice of constructing bunkers) Mk-180 Joint Direct Attack Munitions. The 1,000kg JDAMs could slave their guidance systems to laser or GPS direction, and upon reaching the target could penetrate many meters of earth and steel-reinforced concrete before detonating its massive Protex explosive charge. The tested effect on bunkers was devastating, and what the JDAM Mk-180 could do the thinner skin and more delicate inner-workings of a space cruiser was no less impressive.

The Adventurer IIs of the Grey Owls and the Half Satans, assigned to Cannibal Group, carried nothing so heavy as the JDAM, but an assortment of guided bomb munitions, AGMs, and rockets that were better suited for the "soft" targets they would be striking.

In some ways, Winters hoped that the rogue Zentraedi would take a hint with the fall of the first bomb and retreat post-haste into the wilderness. He had no love for the Zentraedi and only a grudging respect for them, but at the same time he couldn't bring himself to actually desire to see the hell carried by the two attack squadrons brought to bear on any living thing. Technology had honed the tools of killing to perfection while evolution (or in the case of the Zentraedi, genetic engineering) had done little in the way of improving natural defense. When the two opposing elements met- it was always a mess, not unlike feeding flesh to a wood chipper.

"Savage Group, Cannibal Group- this is Chieftain.", came a voice over the radio that was not Braddock, but who was speaking for him to the operational elements, "Tango."

Winters felt his blood chill and his chest tighten slightly in that familiar way as the JOC gave the operational "go" word of "Tango". No other order was required.

Operation Back Step was on.

"Time on primary target, ninety seconds. Savage Strike Group, break.", came the instructions from Cortez, "Let's dance."

 **RDF Intelligence Annex, RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

"Knock, knock-.", said CDR Weitzel, her words coinciding with two raps of her knuckles on the door of the Intelligence Fusion Division's Chief and commanding officer.

Colonel Ephraim Shiloah, RDF, had an "open door" policy with all of his analysts, senior and junior- but it was always wise to knock as he was of the intellectual sort who could be absorbed in thought to the point of not realizing that he was on fire- let alone notice the external distraction of a visitor to his small, windowless office.

Shiloah's physical appearance always struck Weitzel as being like a scarecrow with half of its straw stuffing removed in the way that his uniform seemed to hang off his gaunt, sixty-something-year-old limbs. His short-cropped, grey hair that still insisted on making tight curls despite its length, and his thick, dark plastic rimmed glasses that didn't quite draw one's attention from his liver-spotted face all gave him the appearance of one that might have been one of the _first_ scarecrows. His apparent physical frailties were quite deceiving though, Weitzel had found, as Shiloah was routinely the first into the office as well as the last to leave. His blue eyes burned still with as much intensity of energy as Weitzel had seen in any 20-year old.

It was not Shiloah's bottomless reservoir of energy that had gotten him into the Division Chief's billet for The Warp Core, nor was it his combined focus and intellect alone either. Experience was the determining factor that had put Shiloah behind his desk, and determination to stay there had been a factor in keeping him there.

Almost all RDF and REF officers, especially of Shiloah's age, had pre-Unification careers and histories. Shiloah was no exception, and Weitzel had in a place high on her "wish list" to know exactly what Shiloah's was. Shiloah, with impish glee that may have been as much a personal desire to keep his subordinates mystified as it was a matter of formal discretion would never discuss his pre-Unification professional life at any length.

He was Israeli- that much was known.

He had extensive intelligence experience- that much he would admit.

The particulars were a little fuzzier but in Weitzel's mind, The Mossad was a good bet- perhaps Shiloah had been with Aman, or had worked in coordination with Aman. The senior analyst's suspicions of this came from an informal conversation (some of the best human intelligence came out of "informal" conversations) in which she had mentioned hearing a story of _The Aman_ , which brought a swift correction from Shiloah in which he informed her that "Aman" was not preceded by the definite article "the", much in the same way that it was incorrect to say "The Ukraine".

A slip on Shiloah's part?- Perhaps, but not likely. Weitzel preferred to think of it as Shiloah's little, innocuous hint to help keep the guessing game interesting.

In any case, RDF Intelligence was thick with those who may or may not have been members of the Israeli intelligence services- many of them in ranking positions. It was not that The Mossad or Aman was seen to be superior to the U.S.'s Central Intelligence Agency, or the United Kingdom's MI6, making the Israeli intelligence professionals more desirable. Rather, to Weitzel's way of thinking, the Israelis brought to the table an inherited sense of justifiable paranoia that fit the RDF Intelligence role. Years, centuries actually, of seeing themselves surrounded by enemies gave them a keener natural instinct for the work.

That situation just now applied to the species as a whole, and not just to a particular race.

The Mossad and its former members had already made great contributions to the intelligence elements of United Earth. They had been quickly included in the investigation and analysis of the alien spacecraft that would later come to be known by humanity as the _SDF-1_. They had also been among the major architects of the information control masterpiece that had been the keeping of the secret of the vessel's existence from the public at large for so long.

Similarly, Aman had allegedly been a major contributor to reports that may or may not have existed suggesting the probability of alien aggression to reclaim the _SDF-1_ for its alien builders- and the follow-on recommendations for preparedness. All of this was speculation though.

Carefully guarded speculation.

"Ephraim, I need a minute-.", Weitzel said as Shiloah looked up from his computer screen- a clear sign that he was not yet into his own private world, "Can you spare it?"

"Professional or personal?", Shiloah asked, looking over the tops of his glasses.

"Professional.", Weitzel said.

Shiloah smiled showing time worn teeth that had been yellowed somewhat years before by the since-abandoned habit of smoking, "Good, good- I'm not the young man I once was. Warm a seat cushion-."

Weitzel sat in one of the chairs opposite Shiloah and lay several sheets of paper, including the print-out she had received from Shire, on her division chief's desk.

"I need a quick game of _What If_ , Ephraim."

Colonel Shiloah's eyes brightened with the energy that always seemed to surge in him at the promise of one of his favorite intellectual exercises. _What If_ was the "game" that he had introduced to IFD office long before Weitzel had been billeted there. It was intended to encourage abstract, and "out of the box" thinking by allowing the "players" to suspend accepted knowledge, thinking, and convention. It was a forum, either one-on-one with Shiloah, or in small working groups to propose wild ideas based on minimal support without fear of professional ridicule or humiliation. In her time with The Warp Core, Weitzel had come up with some very "original" _What If_ scenarios, and had heard at least as many.

The odd thing was- sometimes the scenarios weren't far off target.

Shiloah placed the palm of his right hand on the offerings Weitzel had laid on his desk, not even substantial enough to warrant calling "a stack", and spread them, fan-like out before him. He took a few moments to glance at each, to build a base of familiarity with what Weitzel had to work with.

"With this?", Shiloah asked with a tone that was more interested encouragement than incredulity, "Those young synapses must be going like the fireworks at New Years this morning-. French Roast, right?"

"Columbian dark.", Weitzel replied as Shiloah thumbed through the papers a second time.

The division chief then picked the papers up, tapped them neatly into a thin pile between his two hands on the desk, and lay them down again.

"Well, I'm waiting to be dazzled then."

"I think we're seeing indicators of some kind of organized Zentraedi covert operation, Ephraim.", Weitzel said, laying out the ethereal scenario that was still forming in her head, "Something originating off-world, but requiring boots on the ground here. Let's look at what we've got-. We have a priority hyperspace channel transmission within the established Zentraedi operational band that's been _triple_ -layer encrypted- so we know someone doesn't want us listening in. Roll back the clock thirty-six hours and you've got that dispatch, that second sheet I handed you, from RDF Approach that a Zentraedi transport had been winged by a patrol from an A.R.M.D. II, was lost over Brazil, and was likely down in the Control Zone somewhere- which is- _guess what?_ \- where that coded transmission was coming out of. Now, toss in two other bits. First, we have organized bands of Zentraedi in the Control Zone who we know are trying to slap at least three downed cruisers back together to spaceworthiness. We also have a monitored increase of Zentraedi contacts within the asteroid belt that smack of reconnaissance or intelligence gathering-. I don't know, Ephraim, maybe it's nothing, but you can almost connect the dots. You've got Zentraedi who want to leave here on Earth. You've got scores of Zentraedi commanders skulking around the solar system who could really stand to replenish their ranks with the seasoned and the eager. Then you throw in these coded transmissions from an area where a lone, unexplained Zentraedi bandit went down? Am I pushing the envelope of _What If_?"

Shiloah blinked- not a dismissive display, but rather an unintentional one that showed him surfacing from the depths of a practice that he had introduced to his subordinates.

"Well, Anne, you know the real beauty of the hypothetical is that the only _envelope_ is how _meshugge_ you're willing to sound. Would you like to hear some meshugge ideas I've heard in my life-? One of my favorites was that the one day Egypt, Syria, and Jordan might make a coordinated move against Israel. Or, _another_ favorite of mine is that there _might_ be life in outer space that _could_ be hostile. I don't see anything that crazy here."

"But-.", Weitzel stipulated.

"But", Shiloah continued with a small shrug, "Big theories supported by convenient sequences of events and facts don't always convince the decision-makers. Human nature forces them to see everything in the world as being the best they can make it because they're doing all that they can. You're going to have to dig more, Anne- but this will go up on the _Oy Vey_ Board."

Weitzel nodded having expected to be told that she needed more support for her argument. It was promising though that it had made it so quickly to Shiloah's " _Oy Vey_ Board"- indicating that it had captured his interest and would benefit from his follow-up.

Weitzel realized suddenly that her face was saying more to experienced eyes than she thought as Shiloah followed on with,

"There's something more?"

"Yeah, actually.", Weitzel said, " I'm not sure how it fits in, because it doesn't really make sense, but it may be important."

"Well, let's have it- I'm not getting younger, you know."

Weitzel couldn't help but smile briefly before saying, "Well, you saw how the SIGLINT assessment of the transmission indicated a probable triple layer of encryption?"

"Yes, I can still read."

"So, of course SOP is to feed the transmission through Big Bertha and see if she can crack it."

"You know, I've worked here for a while, Anne."

Weitzel was building a creative head of steam again and the wheels were beginning to turn, "Well, Big Bertha hasn't had any luck yet so I had the team run it through E.T.&T-."

Shiloah, familiar with the popular office lingo knew that what Weitzel meant was that the signal had been processed through an intact, captured Zentraedi communications suite that Signals Intelligence had in its possession. The use of the captured alien equipment with all of its encryption hardware and software intact had been critical to deciphering codes in the past if not with the system itself, then at least by providing the cryptologists a roadmap to follow in their work.

"-And?"

"This is the weird part.", Weitzel said, pausing, "And nothing."

"Nothing? As in E.T.&T didn't de-encrypt the message?"

"No", Weitzel said, "As in E.T.&T didn't _register_ the transmission."

Shiloah suddenly looked very interested, "Didn't register the transmission?"

"It didn't acknowledge that the transmission had gone into the virtual receiver. It din't de-encrypt the message because as far as the log files indicate, the system _never received the transmission._ "

"Could there be some kind of hardware failure in the suite?", Shiloah asked.

Weitzel shook her head, "Probably not. The techs ran a full diagnostic, and we even ran the transmission through the back-up suite. Zentraedi equipment is not acknowledging the existence of this particular transmission that was made on one of their own priority bands."

"Any explanations from SIGLINT?"

Weitzel rolled her head slightly from side to side, "Foster thinks that in addition to the triple encryption, the message might include some kind of prefix code that could be telling the hardware we have to ignore the transmission. It just doesn't make sense though. It's a piece that is part of the picture, but it just doesn't fit no matter how I turn it. Why send a priority message that no one can receive?"

Shiloah rocked in his chair for a moment, absorbed in _What If_ , "Maybe you're looking too closely at the piece, Anne- maybe too closely at the picture. Take a few steps back and then look again. What is it they always say?- You're not seeing the whole elephant?"

"Maybe.", Weitzel admitted, "But I'm going to need resources to look."

Shiloah's suspicions that this request was coming were confirmed with Weitzel's statement.

"What were you thinking?"

"Tasking to monitor the Zentraedi high bands on one of the geo-stationary birds over the Control Zone.", Weitzel said in a business tone, "Possibly a dedicated, long-loiter SARO electronics intercept UAV- or three."

Shiloah laughed, amused with Weitzel's boldness- it was one of her many "good" qualities in his eyes.

"You do go for the throat, don't you?"

"It takes too long to start at the toe.", Weitzel said, "Do you think you can swing it?"

"I'll try.", Shiloah said in a way that made no guarantee of success, "A tasking to monitor might go through if we put up the personnel to sift through the chaff. SARO is pretty tight-fisted these days with their UAVs though- you may need to give me more substance before I can make a convincing case for a dedicated UAV."

"Or three.", Weitzel reminded him.

"Or three.", Shiloah repeated, "I've a 0830 with the chiefs and the Director. I'll begin to socialize the idea with the right players."

Weitzel stood from her seat, feeling that she had accomplished something or had at least taken the first step in that direction.

"Thanks for the game, Ephraim."

"Anne-."

"Yes?"

"Start a file on this. Give it a peppy name, and pass me daily sit-reps."

"Yes sir.", Weitzel complied.

With that simple instruction from Col. Shiloah, a line had been crossed between the mere speculation of _What If_ to an official tasker of record. The file jacket would either wither and die in time, or it would grow. Weitzel had the sense that this one would grow.

The only teasing question was, how large?

 **The Amazon River Basin**

First Watch was typically unbearable.

To Warrior 2nd Grade Ekhra, standing watch- particularly first watch that ran from midnight until 0600hrs ("micronians time"- which suited the purposes of timekeeping on this wretched world)- was worse than his hard-labor details that would follow on later in the day. Certainly his labor details, mostly the bearing of parts and materials to, and scrap and wreckage from the scaffold-cocooned form of the _Salan_ scout ship that was the center of labor for over twenty-five hundred warriors was more physically taxing. If it was not maintaining the flow of materials to the skilled warriors and technicians conducting the repairs, then it was the incessant act of slashing back the jungle that constantly threatened to swallow the reviving vessel back into itself. In either detail, it was more than the physical strain and toil, but the constant heat and humidity that drained a warrior as much as the labor itself.

Despite this, Ekhra still preferred these details to standing watch- especially First Watch. First Watch when the bivouac fires had finally died out and the snores of warriors from the nearby encampments mingled with the night sounds of the jungle and its unseen creatures. First Watch, when the passage of time slowed and was marked by the smoking of cigarettes and the circuits paced around the platform of the improvised watch tower- and there were never enough cigarettes.

First Watch was the draining exercise in tedium that only gave you an opportunity to anticipate the torments of your labor later in the day- and little else.

From the northwest corner of the clearing that formed a crude kilometer-deep band around the _Salan_ like an open sore in the tissue of the jungle- Ekhra was able to see the first rays of the local star staining the sky with a red-orange glow. It was a promise that the klaxons in the camps that occupied the outer most perimeter would sound soon to rouse warriors for the larger labor details that occurred by the light of day, and would mean only a short time before First Watch became Second.

What Ekhra did not see, what he could not have seen without the aide of image enhancement equipment that allowed mere organic creatures like Zentraedi or humans to see outside of their natural spectrum of light, was the dinner-plate sized blot of pulsating laser light that had appeared on the carriage-mount of the Czechoslovakian, radar-directed, mobile anti-aircraft gun that had passed through various human hands over the decades of its life to finally be captured for use by a Zentraedi raiding party.

Similarly, neither did he or the other guards in the half dozen improvised towers see the laser light painting the other radar-directed gun systems whose electronic eyes had been dulled to ineffectiveness by a rapidly-closing flight of EA-9D Adventurer IIs that answered to the collective name of "Bushwhackers".

Ekhra and the two dozen or so other guards and gun crews whose duty it was at this hour to be alert in defense of the _Salan_ scout, the night details that worked within it, and the on-site population of sleeping warriors did have their natural sense of hearing though. The low rumble of jet engines caught Ekhra's attention as it seemed to rise about him all around him like steam from the jungle. As the sound began to build in strength and assume an area of origin, the south, Ekhra kicked the warrior asleep on the floor in the corner of the tower platform. It was a common though frowned upon practice by superiors that for every tower's pair of guards, turns would be taken sleeping if a night watch was quiet.

Something was happening now though, and Ekhra didn't need to wait to know what it was to know that he wanted the other warrior to assist in the determination.

As the slumbering warrior grunted indignantly to his awakening, Ekhra saw above the twin humps of the _Salan_ 's engine nacelles high on the aft superstructure a cluster of black dots emerging from the deep purple sky. Fine trails of pink separated from the dots and stretched out before them, crossing the distance quickly over the jungle toward the fallen cruiser and its surrounding encampments.

Missiles.

The alarm klaxons sounded with an ear-splitting screech the moment before Ekhra was able to flatten the switch in his post with his palm- another guard in another tower had been quicker to act. Ekhra was aware of the entire camp coming awake in a single start in the moment before something more personally urgent snatched his attention completely.

As an incoming missile struck its target, a gun emplacement on the southeastern edge of the perimeter- Ekhra realized that one of the missile vapor trails was fanning out from the group in _his direction_.

" _Down!_ ", Ekhra managed to blurt out as he dove for the platform's wood-plank flooring.

His counterpart who had just gotten to his feet and was not yet fully aware of what was happening around him was still standing when the nearby anti-aircraft gun was shattered by a missile warhead. The spray of metal shards and fragments of the gun and its mount ripped easily through the plank floor and southern parapet of the tower, slicing the standing warrior into several pieces as well.

Below, shouts of alarm and anger rose from the multitudes of warriors who were spilling from their tents in various stages of dress to the greeting of the surprise attack. Above, the sky shook as the aggressors, who had been dots on the horizon only moments before, swept over the _Salan_ 's dorsal engines and unleashed a hail of rockets and cannon fire into the disorganized swarms. The trail of fragmentation rockets and shells cut a gruesome swath through the chaos of rousing warriors with a visible, misty spray of shredded flesh and a rain of dismembered body parts.

From the southern perimeter of the encampment, two gun emplacements that had survived the missile strike (the last two as the gun and the guard tower opposite the encampment from Ekhra were lost to a single blast) began to fire wildly on the micronians fighters that were now on the egress of their attack. Ekhra watched the flickering dart of tracers create waves of dotted light in the sky that seemed to pursue, ineffectively, the retreating enemy. At their range, the warrior could not fathom how the micronians were able to slip away without sustaining a single hit.

Ekhra's puzzlement was cut short by a sound that again took his attention in another direction- a hollow, _"thonk!"_ , from just inside the tree line not two hundred meters by its sound from his tower. The sounds of battle were wavering between the subsiding roar of jet engines and the rising screams of the grievously wounded, so Ekhra did not hear the fall of the 60mm mortar round- but he could see it. To the south, quite near to but not on target with one of the remaining anti-aircraft guns, a flash sent a dirty grey cloud of smoke and earth into the air. As the gentle morning breeze, barely a breath, began to carry the smoke away Ekhra was certain that the human mortar crew was adjusting their fire to correct.

He though had an idea of where the mortar crew and its weapon were, and he had the means to do something about it.

Ekhra crossed the platform in two easy strides, noticing the pile of gore that his fellow guard had been reduced to only as he nearly slipped in the irregularly shaped pool of blue blood that was being lost to seepage through the holes and cracks in the platform floor. At the rampart directly facing the jungle, a Browning .50cal heavy machinegun stood in its mount, barrel down toward the ground like a creature caught in a display of shame. Ekhra charged the operating handle on the weapon as he brought the long barrel up and swung it in the general direction from which the sound of the firing mortar had come. He knew he had little if any chance of actually hitting the unseen firing position and the weapon or crew therein, but he could possibly distract them enough with the heavy fire of his weapon to give the anti-aircraft guns that were its target a chance to do their work.

Not a single round left the barrel of the M-2 machinegun as its operator was thrown backwards by a heavy impact in the center of his chest. The sledgehammer blow had become only a dull pain by the time Ekhra landed squarely in the mess that had been the other warrior. It wasn't so bad- _just so hard to breathe…_

Through the fading vision of his dwindling life, Ekhra could see through the improvised roof of the tower that had been torn away by shrapnel the approach of a second flight of aircraft. His last impression was one of recognition of the inbound fighters, as he had seen their kind before-.

Valkyries.

" _Sweet_ fucking shot, Assuncion.", Senior Airman Reginald Howard said, lowering his field glasses as the ASC sniper's round put down a Zentraedi guard in a tower some 400 meters off. The heavy machinegun he had been preparing to fire bobbed up and down on its mount the way a stork's head might when walking.

The sniper actioned the bolt of his rifle, ejecting the spent bullet casing, and catching it before it landed.

"Here-.", he said with as little concern as if he were handing the RDF Forward Air Controller a stick of chewing gum, placing the 7.62mm casing into Howard's hand, " _Souvenir_ from your time in Brazil."

Howard tucked the casing, still uncomfortably warm to the touch, into the breast pocket of his BDUs and took up the target designator- the principle tool of his trade. Part optical sight and part laser-light generator, the designator was fused into a combat system component by electronics that tied it into the GPS and communications systems of the FAC's Personal Integrated Combat System- and into the larger RDF InfoLink network.

Howard had already "painted" a Zentraedi AA-gun for the opening Specter strike wave, allowing their AGM-40 Scorpion missiles to be released at pinpointed targets before the pilots doing the trigger-pulling had ever laid eyes on what was being attacked. As the ASC aircraft did not enjoy the luxury of the InfoLink system, the target frequencies had been transmitted back to the JOC at Salvador Base where a supporting RDF operational staff had handed the information off to the ASC staff who had in turn forwarded it back to their own pilots. The process had taken seconds, but in comparison to what could be done through InfoLink, it was an eternity that had been taken to transfer firing-point information.

The ASC had wanted to fire the opening shots though, so Howard resolved (despite the professional indignity of having a well-streamlined process bastardized for the benefit of glory-seekers) that the gaps in meshing incompatible technologies was an acceptable one.

Valkyries were on the attack now, and they _were_ InfoLink enabled. Senior Airman Howard's flawless execution of his role with the ASC Specters would now seem shoddy by comparison.

From his vantage point, Howard could not put eyes on and consequently could not paint either of the remaining AA-guns to the south- but someone had. As the Valkyries crossed the southern tree line, two distinct sheets of flame plumed skyward as Mk-8 GBU plasma-napalm cluster munitions scattered and ignited their deadly contents over an area identified by one or more FACs like Howard, and were engaged by the Valkyrie drivers. Howard couldn't see the accuracy of the strikes, but knew they had been effective as the stream of tracers from the two guns ceased instantly.

Howard put the "death dot" of his target designator scope on the now unmanned tower and clicked one of its functional switches. A laser range-finder marked the distance while the sight's internal compass and position calculation system worked with the range data to establish the target's position on the battlefield. Howard quickly identified the type of target on his PICS interface pad and submitted it to the InfoLink tactical database for dissemination amongst the strike group.

An unmanned gun tower was not a pressing target of opportunity- but was one that Howard was certain the Valkyries would deal with before the inbound flights of ASC helicopter gunships and slicks followed in the wake of the air strike to complete with air assault troops the elements of the operation either unfinished by the Adventurer IIs, or for which they were unsuited.

Col. Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni felt the clean separation of the two Mk-69 cluster bombs her Valkyrie carried before she pulled her Valkyrie out of its steep "yo-yo" dive at just over 1,800 feet. She had designated two solid warehouse-like structures as targets at the top of her dive, setting the cluster bombs to burst with a minimal spread of their sub-munitions on the targets. As she pulled out of the dive and rolled left, losing sight of the targets as the pitch of her aircraft neared level, the Valkyrie's laser designators tracked the relative position of the two targets and kept them illuminated to guide in the bombs. She did not see the explosions, but rather felt a soft ripple of concussions as the blasts of 120 detonating sub-munitions overtook her at fighter that was flying at subsonic speed.

"That's two for two, Switchblade.", Mumuni's wingman, "Mutt" Sinclair, announced relaying what he saw from above, "We've got low order secondaries, probably plasma torch fuel or chemicals."

"Roger that, Mutt.", Mumuni acknowledged, "Come in and lay a line of nape along this bucket's port side. Zeke's swarming in and I'm lined up all wrong to drop."

"Copy that. Clear out, `cause I'm comin' down."

Mumuni cleared the upper works of the _Salan_ so close that she thought she might clip one of the repair scaffolds erected atop it and welded to the hull with the belly of her fighter. Naturally she had not let herself dip that low, but that was her impression as the downed vessel dropped away behind her.

Ahead, throughout the encampment that facilitated the Zentraedi ship's repair, she could see multitudes in groups large and small, by the torrent or by the trickle, rushing on the very same vessel. Mumuni would have preferred to have seen the Zentraedi, enemies to one degree or another as they were, running into the jungle in the other direction. A warrior who crossed the tree line and who was lost into the jungle from her sight was no longer a viable target. By moving toward the cruiser, they were suggesting the desire to shelter in it- perhaps defend it, and furthermore maybe with the means inside of the scout vessel to do so.

This created a clear tactical imperative to stop them- hence her order to Mutt to lay a wall of plasma-fire, burning hot as the sun's corona, along the port flank of the Zentraedi ship. What would happen to the warriors at and up to 100 meters from the detonation points of the plasma-napalm canisters was gruesome, but would be quick- sublimation. For those outside of that radius, to another 50 to 75 meters, death would be almost as certain- but more lingering and painful as the radiant heat would likely just burn the hair and skin from their bodies but leave them to perish in the secondary fires that would erupt all around them as available combustibles were lit off.

It was ghoulish work, Mumuni knew, but work that had to be done. Not so much to guarantee the operation's success- the AA defenses now mostly smashed with the exception of uncoordinated small arms fire that continued to leap up all around her, the field was open for the Adventurer IIs that even now were beginning their run. It was work that had to be done to actually _save_ rogue Zentraedi.

Collectively the Zentraedi were of the mentality that when under attack, the mounting of a defense, no matter how futile, was better than the option of retreat.

Death in duty before dishonor.

If the roots of a defense took hold, Mumuni had witnessed first-hand, then the defense would quickly be joined and mount- building upon itself as would the courage of the warriors defending. It was their nature, groomed into them by generations of battle without quarter.

The only alternative to a pitiless slaughter was to badly bloody their collective noses before they could resist. Then they would vanish into the wilderness- for now- to regroup later. In Mumuni's mind, the prospect of putting off a slaughter for tomorrow was preferable to bathing in the same blood today. This spoke in contrast to conventional military thinking, and would likely have aroused contempt in the operational planners and her superiors- but they weren't doing the trigger-pulling.

Mumuni had set up her approach for the dropping of her Valkyrie's two Mk-8s though, and she was only in the position to order the attack and not make it. The bathing would be Mutt's.

As Mumuni rolled left to exit the field and escape the moderate danger of small arms fire, she saw a target icon appear amidst the other tactical information projected inside of her helmet visor. It was a priority two target tasker from a FAC, passed up for the taking through InfoLink. "Priority two" indicated a target of significance to safe and successful conduct of operations, but not mission critical.

Still, it was a target of opportunity, and directly in Mumuni's path of exit.

The African pilot leveled her fighter and with extensive training making the decisions, flipped her weapons selector to "Cannon 2", employing the Valkyrie's 55mm, tri-barrel, GU-11 gun pod that was center-mounted below the Veritech's belly while operating in "Fighter" mode. Unlike the Valkyrie's laser cannons that could track the pilot's head movements in any direction up to thirty degrees off the centerline, the GU-11 in this mode was a fixed weapon and had to be aimed by directing the whole aircraft at the target.

With hand movements on the control stick as delicate as would be used to assemble a house of cards, Mumuni worked her Valkyrie into a straight line, drawing down on the target- a guard tower- with the aiming reticule at the center of her Heads-Up Display.

Releasing the safety and depressing the trigger, Mumuni increased her throttle to offset the recoil of the GU-11 discharging- a sound that she had heard appropriately likened to dropping a bucket of lug nuts into a commercial garbage disposer.

At a cyclic rate that would have eaten up her entire load of 400 rounds in under a minute, Mumuni sent two bursts of 55mm "bunnies" and "blossoms" directly at the tower. The M-220 High Explosive- Fragmentation (HEF) rounds, given the popular handle of "bunnies" in homage to the centerfolds of a certain male periodical begun by a man answering to a similar sounding nickname, and M-224 High Explosive- Incendiary (HEI) rounds were often loaded in staggered sequence in the gun pod's "bag of tricks". Together, the "bunnies" and "blossoms" (so named for the puff of white phosphorous that quickly turned to orange flame they generated on impact) were best used against soft and thin-skinned targets- into which category this tower fell.

The powerful 55mm shells mauled earth, vegetation, and flesh in a path that walked up to the tower and dissolved it in a churning storm of explosives, flechette, dust, and flame.

Mumuni pulled sharply into a climb and opened her throttles to rocket her away from the developing if not rather one-sided melee below. Looking back she could see the towering wall of plasma-fire from Mutt's attack run reach its apex. The flame stood a brilliant, almost beautiful bright orange for a moment as though someone had shaved a ribbon off of the sun itself and stood it on edge on the earth below. The effects were similar at least as the familiar secondary fires burst to life while the sheet of plasma flame took on dirty, billowing blotches of black, as Mumuni watched.

At her building altitude, the pilot could not distinguish between inanimate and living objects as they combusted. In truth, she really didn't want to be able to. The ASC would tally bodies later.

A moment later, the _Salan_ 's port engine nacelle burst laterally outward in a black cloud that glittered momentarily with a spray of shattered engine components. The first of the Mk-180 JDAMs had found its target.

Two additional 1,000kg weapons found the same engine as their mark before the debris from the explosion of the first had stopped raining on the burning earth to the cruiser's port. Two explosions that Mumuni felt in her kidneys, despite the fact that she had now exceeded 10,000 feet in altitude, reduced the engine's structure so significantly that it no longer resembled what it had been only moments before as tons of terrilium alloy and engine components sloughed off and tumbled away.

JDAMs, dropped by the 77th Harpies from almost six kilometers up now began to penetrate the _Salan_ 's starboard engine, and more hauntingly by implication- the scout ship's upper decks. Flame and smoke belched out of open hangar bay doors and airlocks, as well as out of the holes the JDAMs had bored through the lightly armored hull themselves.

Mumuni looked away as the scout ship and the encampment fell away to the south and was lost to the jungle. She would take a broad, looping course to the east that would bring her back to the starting point for another run on the battlefield. Her last view of the area showed the encampment being quickly swallowed in a thick cover of smoke and dust. It was possible that this would preclude more direct ground support duty- the ASC helicopter gunships would want some trigger time for themselves, no doubt.

As witness to the reminder of what could be done in under four minutes to an unsuitably matched opponent, Mumuni was content to let the ASC have all the trigger time they wanted.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

Major Wang, RDF-AF S-3 liaison to Operation Back Step struggled to assist the junior operations officers of his staff while at the same time supervising them in their tasks. Their "tasks" mainly involved the manual transfer of tactical data from the RDF exclusive InfoLink system to the ASC C2 network of systems. Primarily his team of six that spanned in rank from a senior airman to two first lieutenants were plotting targets as they were identified on the ASC electronic map, and updating battle damage against the new as well as the primary operational objective targets as the fighting progressed. Status boards of RDF aircraft on station, their condition, and the munitions stores they carried for use were also maintained to keep the ASC Joint Operation Commander fully apprised of his combat assets.

On paper, it looked like a healthy dose of work for six. The reality was more severe.

Major Wang had anticipated the overwhelming surges of details that he and his staff would have to keep on top of, and had feared privately letting the RDF end down in front of the ASC. ( _Esprit de corps_ was very much alive, thank you.) Though Wang's concerns were proving to be unfounded on two fronts. First, the RDF S-3 staff was keeping pace with the battle's developments, but second, and more significant- the RDF staff had been placed- almost isolated- in a corner of the Joint Operations Center.

Wang hadn't thought of it much at the onset of the operation- floor space and equipment space was at a premium in the small JOC that hummed and was cramped with electronics racks, computer workstations, and holographic map tables as it was- and this, _before_ Wang and his team had brought in the RDF equipment to network in to InfoLink.

It was when the bombs had started to drop that Wang began to understand just how far removed he and his team were. They had a holographic map of the battlefields in play- true, but the information flow was disproportionate. While Wang's S-3s struggled to maintain the surge of information flowing out to General Braddock and his S-3 staff, ten meters away, information was trickling back to him.

General Braddock, at a glance to a map or monitor, had an accurate idea of the RDF contingent's actions and capabilities at any given time. Wang had little to offer his pilots about ASC forces except for their positions. What was more was that direction of action, and assessment of the battle's progress from Braddock's S-3 staff came in bits carried by four runners of the second lieutenant grade that Braddock had dedicated to that purpose.

Wang rightfully felt he was being asked to carry out delicate and detailed work in the dark- and it was getting darker.

The major pored over the electronic map showing the three primary objectives for Back Step. Savage Group had nearly completed its initial strike on the downed Zentraedi vessel. Cannibal Group had made short work of its first target, substantially smaller than that of Savage Group, and was moving on to its second.

No instructions were coming down from Braddock on orders to loiter in the combat areas or to exit. The battle was not at the point where these decisions were critical- but Wang knew his pilots and knew they would soon be asking for instructions. He wanted to have answers to give them.

More though, Wang was looking for an excuse to cross that great expanse of ten meters to where the ASC officers huddled around General Braddock and the operation's true command center. Wang couldn't put his finger on exactly why he needed to do this- perhaps it was no more than the same curiosity that drove a smaller child to try to leap for a glimpse over the shoulders of larger children as they gathered tightly around some activity of interest. He felt in his gut though that it was important.

"Hold down the fort for me, Stern.", Wang said to his ranking lieutenant as he set out on his trek of twenty paces.

Wang had not made it two paces before one of General Braddock's runners had intercepted him, asking, "Can I relay something for you, sir?"

"My legs work just fine, Lieutenant.", Wang replied, stepping around the junior officer not quite enough to avoid making shoulder-to-shoulder contact that allowed him to give the younger man a physically communicative shove.

Wang encountered an ASC captain and a tech sergeant mid-way to Braddock's huddle that offered the same assistance but only succeeded in coming across to Wang as a screen buffering the ASC and RDF operational staffs. As he had done with the lieutenant before, he passed through the passive resistance of the two men and reached the base commander's action post to be received with looks of concern and shock.

"General Braddock, sir.", Wang announced himself, gaining the CO's attention.

A brief expression of concern crossed the senior officer's face but was gone as quickly as it had appeared, "Is there a problem, Major? Are my liaisons not keeping up with you?"

"Not at all, sir- I just thought we'd benefit from a quick face-to-face.", Wang replied.

Braddock nodded, "Okay, Major, have it."

"About half of our Adventurer IIs are out of munitions, and our Valkyries are starting to run down as well, sir. I wanted to request to cut some of the Valkyries loose to escort the Adventurer IIs out of the AO."

Braddock glanced at his status boards and nodded, "Granted, Major. Start bringing your people from Savage Group home. Keep Cannibal Group and your reserve Adventurer II squadrons on station to support our air assault troops if needed though."

Wang nodded his understanding, "Yes sir."

In the process of the nod, Wang's line of sight crossed Braddock's holographic map, which augmented with the RDF supplemental data was somewhat more robust in detail than what Wang was working with across the JOC.

This was not the point of interest that captured the S-3's attention though. It was the fact that there were significant tactical details being displayed for more than the three target areas identified in the briefing Wang had given his pilots for Operation Back Step. Wang counted six, perhaps seven before Braddock "accidentally" scattered a stack of computer print-outs and recon photos across the top of the map table- effectively distorting the holographic map.

"That will be all, Major.", Braddock said.

Wang knew he had been dismissed, "Yes sir."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

The distant, deep rumble under cloudless morning skies was an unmistakable sound to accustomed ears.

Battle.

Sub-Lieutenant 2nd Grade Sekran had been standing watch with Specialist Khalot- a watch detail in name only really, with little effective defense provided otherwise- when the first distant boom had been heard around sunrise. Sekran had sent Khalot to rouse the remaining Te'Dak Tohl who were sleeping within the shelter of the transport as he had scaled the webbing of the camouflage netting for a better view of the horizon.

By the time that Action Commander Kevtok and the surviving members of the party had joined him on top of the crippled craft, Sekran had located the general area of the engagement.

Kevtok raised a pair of digital field glasses to his eyes and scanned the area from which a pawl of black smoke was rising. He could see no explosions as the battle was at the curve of the horizon, easily a day's hard march from their position, but increases in the volume of smoke rising from the jungle accompanied at intervals by muted thunder told Kevtok that the fighting was still building toward a climax. He could not even make out the target that was apparently receiving so much punishment- but with the zoom and enhancement features of the field glasses, Kevtok could see the attackers were of the micronians armed forces. This made it likely that the side clearly suffering the heaviest losses was Zentraedi.

Norghil, certainly, but Zentraedi nonetheless.

"Are those the same ones?" Lt. Moyrt asked as he handed off a pair of field glasses to Hyra that were identical to the ones Kevtok was using, "Are those the same ones that brought us down?"

Hyra peered through the glasses to study the micronians aircraft before responding. There was no real point in doing this as she had only seen the micronians fighters that had inflicted the mortal wounds on the transport as blips on the sensor display screen. She wanted to satisfy her own curiosity before addressing Moyrt's.

"Can't tell.", she said, "I never saw them."

"Well these are certainly being seen by someone.", Moyrt pointed out, "I wonder what it's over?"

Kevtok lowered his field glasses, not benefiting greatly from their use. The smoke column was visible with the naked eye now, rising over the field of green jungle for some distance before the prevailing wind caught it and caused it to curve like a beckoning black finger.

"It doesn't matter.", Kevtok resolved, "What does matter is that there are likely Zentraedi that way. Norghil or not, we can benefit from the meeting of them-. Sub-Lieutenant Ahtro-."

"Yes, Lord?", replied the Serhot Ran warrior.

"You will remain with the transport, and Specialists Khalot and Breha. The rest of you- draw weapons and two days rations and gear. It's time we got our bearings on this world."

Winters watched from a lazy orbit above as a fresh flight of Adventurer IIs from the 333rd Half Satans crossed the jungle below en route to the cauldron of smoke in the jungle that minutes earlier had been a Zentraedi encampment spanning some four hundred meters by four hundred meters with an orderly arrangement of living areas and improvised storage structures.

That had been before the first wave of Valkyries (Winters' own section) and the follow-on, body blow from the first section of the 403rd Grey Owls. The strike of the Grey Owls, dropping a broad pattern of Mk-69 cluster bombs, had quickly reduced most of the storage structures to ruin that burned wildly and was dotted through the murk of smoke with secondary explosions.

From what Winters could see from his vantage point told him that what was following amounted to little more than unnecessary cruelty.

It was, however, unnecessary cruelty inflicted wantonly by "Mojo" Mathias and his Cavaliers- for whatever solace that gave Winters. Winters had watched with morbid fascination as Mathias's flight had crossed the target area firing their Hydra II fragmentation rockets, and the twin 27mm and single 37mm Mauser cannons of their Specters blindly into the swirling smoke.

That craven display had preceded and would be dwarfed in scale by what was about to be done by the Half Satans.

Winters saw the separation of weapons from the broad wings of the attack bombers and saw them vanish into the smoke below. The Adventurer IIs had scarcely cleared the tree line on their exit path when fingers of plasma-fire poked up through the boiling smoke and dust, seeming unsatisfied with what was being done to earth and wanting to assault heaven as well.

" _Jesus,_ Jack-.", Vice said, holding his CO's wing as they orbited, "Think later we can find some ants to toss grenades at?"

The other pilot's implication of overkill was not lost on Winters- in the brief interludes between the furies of battle below, he had been feeling the same thing.

"Not down there, I should think.", Winters replied.

This was the second objective that Knight Hawk Squadron had struck this morning, and without so much as a dozen shots fired by the Zentraedi in reply. The surprise had just been too complete, and the effectiveness of the opening attacks too effective. The Zentraedi had been flung onto the mercy of Cannibal Group, who under the direction of Lt. Col. Mathias was showing little.

"Keep the chatter down.", Mathias instructed, "Don't clutter the air."

Winters bit his tongue, remembering Mathias technically was in command—berserk as his approach was.

"I've got a targets of opportunity to the northeast.", Mathias continued, "Jack, break your section off and follow me in. Cannibal Group, divert ten kliks southeast and hold for possible follow-on."

Winters glanced quickly at the sensor-integrated map display of the battlespace on _Marilyn_ 's central MFD. The data feeds from Wang at the JOC were keeping tactical information on the three primary objectives current, but there was no indication of the target of opportunity which Mathias had spoken of.

"Mojo, I've got no tactical profile on the target.", Winters said.

"Just follow me.", Mathias ordered in a tone that left little latitude for debate, "Your boys at the JOC must be slow on the uptake, that's all."

The section of Cavaliers led by Mathias banked and turned to the northeast, allowing Winters and his section of Valkyries to easily join up.

"What are we hitting?", Vice asked, "Hard targets? Soft?"

"Soft structures.", Mathias said, "A base camp and storage facility that a recon unit just stumbled across. Intel's not sure why they're off alone, so we want the storage units intact. Concentrate your fire on personnel areas. No cluster bombs, no plasma nape- are we clear?"

Winters thought darkly that Mathias was picking a fine time to become squeamish at his work, "Why spare a microbe here?"

" _Are we clear, Jack?_ "

"Clear as a crystal ball.", Winters replied, "Guns and rockets only, chaps. Show moderation in your massacre."

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

With the exception of location, company, and attire the day (the _second_ day, Andy dreaded to remind himself) had taken a course that wasn't all that unfamiliar.

He and Cedric, whether it had been in school and to be ready for the incessant competition that was making and retaining a place on the football team, or in the off-season just to retain an appearance to impress the girls, were used to starting the day with running.

Similarly, the two sessions of classroom instruction on United Earth/RDF, and Zentraedi histories respectively had not been vastly different from instruction under some of their stricter schoolmasters.

Admittedly, the forty-five minute battery of tests that followed and which seemed to have nothing to do particularly with either classroom session, based rather on general knowledge, math aptitude, and problem-solving abilities did seem odd to Andy- but not an obstacle of any difficulty.

Even the return to the marshalling grounds outside of Barracks 61 for more stretching and calisthenics before being hastened off to the gymnasium for instruction in and the first regiment of weight strength-training had been of little cause for distress.

It was the insurmountable, inescapable, resolute and relentless torment that went by the name of O'Shae that was making Andy's day take a turn for the worse. Falling in for a kilometer jog to what the senior training sergeant promised as "a surprise of glee" (the way in which O'Shae had said it alone had made Andy's blood run cold) O'Shae had somehow come upon the notion that Andy's day had been going _too_ well- and had decided to remedy the situation.

The training sergeant, easily three times Andy's age, had attached to his hip like a terrier to a fox and with twice as much tenacity. Andy fantasized for a moment that if he could just break ranks from the platoon, he could easily leave the abuse-spewing old man behind. But just over 24 hours in military service had darkened Andy's outlook on life and forced him to consider that if he did break ranks to stretch his legs, O'Shae would likely just respond by taking flight on the nearest broomstick, or perhaps just growing to be three meters tall with a running stride and barking voice to match.

It was a fact of life at Falkirk- there was no escaping O'Shae, and _everyone_ took a turn under his scrutiny.

" _Thought you'd gotten through it, eh sonny Jim?"_ , O'Shae yelled up into Andy's ear, keeping pace with him- almost running in Andy's hip pocket- and without any signs of having to stop before sunset.

" _Thought old O'Shae'd ne'er notice li'l ole you, eh?"_

Actually, the embarrassing fact was that Andy had.

" _I see one o' your kind every time through! Keep your nose clean, keep pace on a run, and you think you'll just slide on by, eh?!"_

It was worse than Andy had thought. O'Shae wasn't just malicious- he was _psychic and malicious._

" _Johnson? Isn't that a way you call your cock?- Like you'd know! Better ask your chummy-chum, Collins. Maybe that's the way you call his cock, thick as you two are! Oh, I see it-! O'Shae sees all in this shire, laddy! The two football chums off to war, are ye? We can see who got the personality `tween the two o' ya though, eh? Everyone! Everyone! I want you to meet Beckham, and Not Beckham! Tell me true, lad, are ye hopin' he has a bad day someday so you can be star striker for a day? C'mon, striker, ye can tell ole O'Shae!"_

Andy was becoming concerned that O'Shae's clairvoyant abilities would soon come to bear on his masturbatory habits when the crest of a hill revealed the "gleeful surprise" in store for Training Platoon 6045.

" _Oh, see there, Striker?_ ", O'Shae taunted on, a limitless pool of energy for that activity, " _Saved from O'Shae by The Tangle! See, Jesus loves you- though the rest of us think you're a sniveling prick!"_

O'Shae left Andy's side, increasing his running pace to pull ahead and taking with him immeasurable weight. By the time the training platoon reached the foot of what quickly and clearly became an obstacle course of sadistic design and was halted, O'Shae had taken the lead in the run with his training sergeants flanking him to either side.

From where Andy stood in the fifth row, outer right column, he could make out a successive series of six horizontal logs on posts, each a little under a meter higher than the last, and at meter intervals. The last horizontal log was level with a platform from which four posts supporting taught rope-lines rose. Beneath the ropes that stretched off beyond Andy's sight to their termination point was a still and mirror-like pool of dark water. Beneath the horizontal logs that led up to the rope platform was a pit of mud that grew bog grasses n patches, but that also showed clear signs of having been disturbed by falling bodies in the recent past.

" _This is The Tangle, my loves!_ ", O'Shae bellowed, his lung capacity no worse for the thousand meter run it had taken to get there, " _This beauty is one hundred meters of the most fun you'll never have climbing, jumping, swinging, and crawling. Mandatory time to negotiate this course is four minutes, thirty seconds- the record is three forty-one! I will see you all do better, or so help me Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I'll fertilize the marshallin' grounds with your graves! For your own sakes, bite your tongues if you have any questions because if y'canna figure it out, your too fuckin' stupid to be wearing a uniform! Failure IS an option, but one that means a miserable, wet rest of your day- an' that'd break my wee li'l heart!"_

As O'Shae spoke, two of his training instructors bounded up the horizontal logs to reach the rope platform with an ease that had to have come with countless repetitions of the act.

Still, how bad could it be?

" _First four, up!"_ , O'Shae ordered, signaling the first row of recruit trainees to assault the course, " _Move it! Move it! Move it!"_

Four sets of boot-clad feet hit the first horizontal log, each showing some slippage and indicating that the morning damps had clung steadfast to the smoothed wood and left it slick.

The leap to the second log was less graceful and cut the recruit trainees' momentum in half.

At the third log, the young woman whose name Andy did not know, who had been at the head of his column, teetered for a moment having put too much muscle into her leap. A moment later the mud below received her in a great, syrupy-sounding splash.

" _Equal rights is a bitch, ain't it, lassie?"_ , O'Shae called as a head and torso surfaced coated in black muck.

 **The Amazon River Basin**

The primary objectives assigned to Cannibal Group had long since fallen away in Winters' wake and were now marked only by a barely visible smudge of grey over the rough horizon of rain forest canopy to the southwest.

Winters was beginning to question how a site so remote from the _Salan_ scout ship could possibly support its repair operations. Possibly, these camps located deep in the forest (though it seemed to Winters that _everything_ in the Zentraedi Control Zone was deep in the forest) were positions established to defend critical points on supply routes. It was speculation that Winters quickly grew tired of engaging in, and which Mathias either could not or would not speak to. The best answer Winters had gotten to questions on the target types had been, "encampments".

"First target ahead.", Mathias said as his Specter pitched up slightly to put on some altitude, "It's small, so you'll have to use a steep angle of attack to get more than a split second on it. I'll establish the pattern, you Knight Hawks just build your fire on it. For Christ's sake, watch the warehouses!"

Winters followed Mathias into a climb and leveled off at just over 6,000 feet.

Blitz's wingman, Skinny, always the proponent of the direct approach suggested, "So why don't we go in Guardian-like, and just mow the place flat from a hover?"

Vice replied with a laugh, "If you want to bet your nads that none of those dittos has an anti-tank rocket tucked away for a rainy day like today, you go right ahead, bucky!"

"We'll keep our mode of attack as fast strafing passes.", Winters instructed, Dalton's pre-take off warning of "The Golden BB"- that one lucky shot with something small and seemingly insignificant that the enemy needed to smear you on the deck like jam on a biscuit- was foremost in his mind. The thought of being a target for the somewhat larger, more menacing, and more likely to be encountered rocket-propelled grenade was even less appealing than the mythical Golden BB.

Mathias and his wingman had begun their steep dive on an opening in the rain forest that was only identifiable to Winters by its rim of trees.. As the Specters dove at the encampment, their Mauser cannons and Hydra II pods flashed with the discharge of shell and rocket. The exchange of fire was heavily lop-sided in the favor of the Specters as only a few random, small-arms tracers (potential Golden BBs, Winters thought) leapt up out of the jungle but failed to connect with the ASC fighters even as they pulled out of their dive and into a climb to escape.

The second pair of ASC Specters was already on the attack before Mathias and his wingman had even cleared the target area completely. Winters could now see down into the opening of the forest.

He could see what warranted Mathias's warning about being mindful of the warehouses- likely the rectangular structures at the east end of the encampment. They sat very near, and were enveloped to some degree on three sides by dense scatterings of huts of various sizes- north, west, and south.

Mathias's strafing run had obliterated three, perhaps as many as five of the smaller shack-like structures at the center of their densest grouping and had started fires in at least a half dozen more. The second pair of Specters from his section were continuing the work even as the dots of retreating Zentraedi fled the path of cannon shells and rockets the way that ants ran from a sun beam passed through a magnifying glass.

It was as the second pair of Specters pulled out of their attack and cleared the way for Winters and Vincenz that Winters glimpsed briefly an irregularity in the density of the rain forest on a hill to the northeast. Nothing overwhelmingly attention-grabbing, just three slightly depressed, large rectangles of green that looked as though they had been cleared for a purpose and then forgotten to be overgrown again.

Winters was in a dive already though, and his attention was required for tactical thought lest his mode of attack change from strafing run to suicide dive.

"No point in bringing everything home-.", Winters muttered to himself as he depressed the gun and rocket triggers alternately while the HUD aiming reticule crossed fleeing Zentraedi, burning, and solid structure alike. Bunnies, blossoms, and M-173 HEF Hydra II rockets cut a swath from south to north across the encampment. Where shell or rocket detonated within or near a shack, the structure disintegrated in much the same way that Winters had seen a house of cards come apart when caught by a sudden breath of wind. The pilot did his best not to notice the effects of the same weapons on the Zentraedi (who were now gaining real human shape and were no longer just dots) who seemed to simply melt into the explosion churned earth.

Something tightened in Winters chest and gut- a pain sharper and deeper than usual- and he felt relief that his plummeting altimeter demanded he break off the attack before his nerve failed and insisted the same.

"They're not in a fighting mood today.", Vice said as he leveled off on Winters' wing and both Valkyries followed the path of the Specters to the northeast.

"What?", Winters said, feeling the cold, invisible knife continue to turn in his belly.

"The dittos don't have any fight in them today- they just ran.", Vice said, explaining himself.

Looking back, Winters could see Blitz and Skinny diving into their strafing run, tracers and rocket trails blazing from their Valkyries. The knife turned again and pushed deeper, striking Winters' spine this time just above the base and sending electric tingles to his extremities. Looking away was easy.

"Can you blame the poor bastards?"

"No- I guess not."

Blitz and Skinny were joining up again when Mathias's voice came over the radio again, "Form up on me and prepare to come left to two-nine-five, maintain level at angels four."

Winters glanced at his central MFD and found neither the new target that Lt. Col. Mathias was routing them toward, nor the one that had just been struck appearing there. He could see the movements of ASC helicopter gunships and slicks converging on both Savage and Cannibal Groups' primary targets- and it was possible that they would soon move on to these recently "discovered" targets of opportunity to do the same cleaning up that would be occupying the air assault troops shortly.

Winters wanted to believe that. Weren't the simplest answers usually the correct ones, all other things being equal? Someone smarter and likely to be remembered better by history had said that once.

Still-.

Winters shook it off. It was an onion he had no interest in peeling.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

"You're back, Major-.", General Braddock said, taking notice of Wang's presence at his holographic map table without looking up, "Is there a problem?"

Wang noticed that one of Braddock's attending S-3s had deselected displayed layers on the holographic map- essentially removing the same details that Braddock had less deftly covered with a stack of documents earlier.

Wang pretended not to notice, almost convincingly, and said, "No sir, no problem operationally speaking. I'm thinking ahead to paperwork though. Begging your pardon, sir, I've got Valkyries bombing the holy hell out of rain forest right now- and I don't know what they're striking. I'm going to need to account for this in my AAR to my chain."

"Targets of opportunity.", Braddock said as simply and generically as if he had been speaking of pencils or flour, and not of something on the receiving end of GU-11 cannon shells and rockets, "Passed up by some of our deployed recon units. Colonel Mathias is walking Colonel Winters through, Major, there's no need to be alarmed."

"I'm not alarmed, sir.", Wang replied, suppressing the rising anger he felt as a result of an increasing impression of being patronized, "I'll need target positions and profiles from your operations staff though- just to keep our reports in sync."

In reality, Wang knew well that he could get the accurate position of any Valkyrie in the operation and when, what, and where they had fired their weapons from each fighter's onboard combat computer. Wang also knew that Braddock knew this.

"We'll see that our reports match up, Major.", Braddock said, "Those recon units don't answer to me directly, so I'll have to contact their chain of command to get full profiles on what was hit. It may take a little time."

"I appreciate it, sir.", Wang replied.

"You should return to your post then, Major.", Braddock said.

"Yes sir.", Wang agreed, turning to comply.

"And Major-.", Braddock said after him, in a casual tone.

"Sir?"

"You shouldn't get so spun up over the little details. It's not healthy."

"Noted, sir."

 **Brasilia**

" _Goddamn ASC_.", Lilith muttered under her breath as she closed the secure satellite link established through her notebook computer and the small uplink antenna unit perched on the apartment's windowsill.

Sergeant Oakes and Corporal Gyle may or may not have actually heard Lilith's demand of The Almighty to condemn to eternal torment all of the Army of the Southern Cross, or they may have simply sensed the sudden and drastic change in her mood at listening to the message left for her. In either case, something had made a stark change in the ICA agent's demeanor, and if it was affecting her so acutely then it followed that it affected them as well.

"Problem?", Oakes asked, or rather said with inflection that marked the word as a question though it was equally observation.

Lilith crossed the small living room that was now doubling as Oakes' and Gyle's living area and sat on the couch next to the junior partner in the sniper team before she responded.

"Problem- maybe."

Oakes was accustomed to working with unknowns and random variables in much that he did in his profession- but if given the option he preferred definites. A definite "yes" to the question of whether there was to be a problem was almost as welcome a response as a "no". A definite "yes" meant that the plan had gone in the hopper, and that immediate revision or improvisation was required.

A clean slate, a new plan- an unclear trail, but an imperative to plot a new course to the same objective. Oakes could work with that.

"Maybe" opened the door to a whole range of scenarios- all of which the three would have to be equally prepared for.

"What happened exactly?", Gyle asked- a reasonable question to begin with considering Lilith had been calling for his damnation by association of membership moments before.

"Some of your _associates_ saw the need to launch an air strike on three of Yeshta's operations this morning.", Lilith said, "A cruiser and two support areas."

Oakes and Gyle exchanged a look that was less than astonished. The ASC was a flatter and more decentralized command structure than the RDF and allowed lower echelon commanders much more flexibility in pre-emptive or responsive actions- within reason. For as many problems as it caused in coordinating strategic action, on the tactical and operational levels it was a godsend.

It also sometimes affected smaller operations that either had no visibility to the lower echelon commanders making their swift tactical decisions, or operations that lacked their consideration. This was a case in point.

"How is Yeshta likely to react?", Oakes asked.

Lilith went into her pocket to fish out a coin, "I don't know, let's flip and see. I suppose a lot of it will have to do with how extensive the damage has been to his plans. He could step outside in twenty minutes to curse the fates, or he could choose to go underground and lay low. Let the heat die down a little, and all of that. He's got to be seeing a big conspiracy to crush him now. My last attempt to snuff him- and now this-. He's got to be thinking conspiracy."

"Isn't there one?", Gyle pointed out, glancing past Lilith to the case containing his rifle.

Lilith laughed at the observation. Indeed there was.

"So, let's think it through.", Oakes suggested, "Let's say he goes underground. That about does it for Gyle and me, but it could still be good for you."

Lilith raised an eyebrow, "Really? How's that?"

Oakes shrugged, "From what you've been telling us about this Yeshta, and from what we've read in your files- he seems like a pretty smart guy."

"At least average as Zentraedi officers go.", Lilith agreed.

"So", continued Oakes, "he's smart, and he's Zentraedi. I've fought enough of them over the years to tell you that even if he decides to hole up somewhere himself, he's not going to let this go unanswered. Either by his order or not, his people are going to respond to this."

"And then-?", Lilith asked, "I'm having problems greasing one ditto- I'm not sure how well I'd do against thousands."

Oakes picked up the communal pack of cigarettes from the table and after allowing Lilith to take one, he took one for himself, lit it, and continued, "Then the pressure is off of you. That's the beauty of it. There's no way in hell the ASC is going to let this guy's followers take it out on whoever they decide to take it out on. We'll hop on `em with both feet. Crush the body of the snake, if you like."

"Or, on the other hand", Gyle suggested, "he might decide to come out to either speak his people up or down. And then we've got him. Crush the head of the snake."

"A lot of snake analogies flying around today.", Lilith said, "Whichever it's gonna be, information is going to be harder to come by. Tight lips are going to be that much tighter after today. That's for me to worry about though. Tell me about these sites you've scouted on the three main plazas."

"Fair, good, and sweet beyond belief- in that order.", Gyle said.

Lilith smiled inwardly at the glee that Gyle took in his work. One might have mistaken his appraisal of shooting positions to be something on the order of golf strokes, or numbers of runs scored in a baseball inning- anything but the planning of an intentional taking of a life.

Lilith realized in that moment that she had made the right decision in soliciting the services of these men. It wasn't that they were eager for the work, or opposed to it. They were comfortable with it and knew what had to be done to accomplish it.

That made things easier, and easy things were a rare commodity these days.

"Of course-.", Oakes said, hesitating for a moment, "Assuming that the target still intends to speak publicly, and _assuming_ he still chooses to do it at one of the three plazas we scoped out-. We still have some minor details to work out."

"Such ass?", Lilith asked. The sniper team had talked her anxiety down to a pale shadow of what it had been- it was her turn to ease their minds. So much of this work was the maintaining of a positive attitude.

"Access.", Gyle said, "All of the positions have the unfortunate distinctions of being in high-traffic areas of one sort or the other. People would be quick to come looking in curiosity after we fired the first shot, if someone didn't see us setting up first. The positions are there- it's just a question of privacy at the moment of opportunity."

"Well then", Lilith resolved, "we would just have to come up with a reason why people wouldn't want to be around when that shot- it will be only _one_ shot, won't it?"

"As sure as we're talking.", Gyle assured her confidently. She'd seen the work he could do on manhole covers.

"It just so happens that getting people to do what I want without them knowing it is my specialty.", Lilith said with equal confidence, "Give me a little time and I'll make them believers."

"Done."

 **The Robotech Factory**

"This revelation has been quite unexpected.", Supreme General Krymina said to the assembly of her senior offices and staff, "Unexpected as it is, we can afford neither to ignore the significance of it nor miss the opportunity that Fate seems to have put in our path."

The senior officer's briefing room was filled to capacity- the senior officers most important to operations seated at the large briefing table while lesser action officers and staff stood organized by discipline in the outskirts. Even chairs for the two Tirolian scientists, Darius and Philisto- who had volunteered themselves (wisely) to Krymina's service at the onset of the operations and who had abandoned the world of the Robotech Masters in its dying throes- had been provided for. The two scientists, physically dwarfed by the giants whom the Robotech Master caste of their race had created, and whom the two scientists were now involved in Krymina's subversive plot against, were no less of a presence at the table. They were trusted insofar as their activities could be monitored by the Te'Dak Tohl. Darius had shown himself eager and Philisto at least willing with dedication to support with their scientific knowledge (admittedly greater than that held by even the most seasoned Te'Dak Tohl scientific specialist) Krymina's plans and operations. They had already provided Supreme General Krymina with an enlarged army, supplemented with altered norghil whose additional programming would allow them to function effectively in combat, side-by-side with Te'Dak Tohl. More significantly and more to Krymina's pleasure, they had also provided the methods and means to the supreme general to counter the Robotech Masters' final check of control on their former trusted enforcers over the norghil- The Withering. Because of a simple daily supplement provided by the two Tirolians, no longer could the Te'Dak Tohl be eliminated at a whim and from afar by the intentional genetic flaw designed into them by their former lords.

The Te'Dak Tohl were free now, in every sense of the word, so long as they were willing to fight in defense of that freedom. Supreme General Krymina was prepared to do that, and so much more.

Of note, the other presence at the table that had not been physically there since the altered norghil had been Awakened into sufficient numbers to form an army was that of Sub-General Jekketh. Krymina's favored Action Army general, her _Trak Khot_ or "war hammer" had been away on war games with his new ranks, and it was only the receiving of his final divisions that had brought him back to the Robotech Factory and allowed him to be physically at this meeting.

Sub-General Caldettas would have preferred that Jekketh remain on the world four days hyperspace fold from the Robotech Factory and only participate through com-link. It was not spoken of, but neither was it a secret that Krymina's executive officer and her war hammer were at the best of times coldly civil to one another. Caldettas intensely disliked Jekketh's preening, self-promoting, sycophantic nature where these qualities were directed toward Supreme General Krymina. Caldettas gave the grudging admission that as a commander of forces, Jekketh was superb and second-to-none in the 7th Grand Army- but his motivations were not Duty, but rather glory- and glory in the form of Krymina's approval.

Sub-General Jekketh, it was well known by his own word, was no less fond of Caldettas. Caldettas, knowing Jekketh to be a simple creature, speculated that this stemmed from nothing more than the fact that he and not Jekketh stood closer to the Supreme General and enjoyed both her full trust in all things and her counsel.

At best, the relationship between Caldettas and Jekketh was coldly civil- and this occasion was no better or worse.

Caldettas was grateful, secretly, that Jekketh was physically present at the table for one reason if no other: Caldettas wanted to watch Jekketh as his months of intense training operations became a non-issue. He wanted to watch Jekketh writhe and squirm.

"This will require, of course, a complete directional change in operational planning.", Jekketh said, his opinion unsolicited by Krymina, "That in turn will mean a significant change in training and war game exercises- additional time-."

Normally to speak out of turn, a blatant violation of protocol- especially when in the presence of a supreme general- would not have been tolerated. Caldettas would have been quick to jump on the violation- had the violator been any other than Jekketh. He did not wish to bring up the matter only to have the doctrine overruled by Krymina. Caldettas did not want to give Jekketh any reason to gloat- especially as he had just put himself onto unsteady footing by suggesting even the slightest flaw in Krymina's actions. The situation would remedy itself.

"The directional change in operational planning is already in progress and will require your input, Jekketh.", Krymina said not as harshly as Caldettas would have liked. She rarely if ever spoke harshly to the sub-general lest the sullen funk that would inevitably overwhelm him detract from his effectiveness to her objectives. "But there will be no delay. There can be no delay. Time has become more critical than ever in this campaign. Yesterday we were aware that Zor's battle fortress was in the possession of these aliens, and that we were engaged in a race with both the Invid and the Robotech Masters to retrieve it. Today we alone possess the knowledge that the sole fuel source that makes _any_ of Zor's science viable also has shown the ability to grow on this world. Simply seizing the battle fortress from the aliens is no longer sufficient. We now must seize the planet as a whole, _intact_ , and brace it for the Invid onslaught that will come eventually."

Jekketh's passion swelled, "And therein lies the problem, Supreme General-. We will be employing an army that is over sixty-percent untested in real battle in a campaign the likes of which has never been attempted by Zentraedi- norghil or Te'Dak Tohl. Our overarching strategies, our equipment, even our support infrastructure is based on the central concepts of movement, application, and then withdrawal of forces. We are now talking about occupation of a _world_ -. Decimation of the indigenous population to the point where they would be subservient or at least inconsequential to our operations- and to do so without damaging the world to the point of it being useless to us- that is an undertaking on a massive scale."

From the table-top, central to the triangle formed by Krymina at the table-s head and Caldettas and Jekketh at either side, Darius interjected his wisdom. Of only a Tirolian's physical size, and capable of less speaking volume than the giants around him, it was only Krymina's motion to silence that allowed the scientist to be heard by all of the giants in the room.

"Might I point out that _decimation_ of the indigenous population would be imprudent, if not foolish as well.", Darius said boldly, "Assume a successful operation to eliminate the alien military, and a successful operation on our part to secure the planet without adversely altering the climate and thereby destroying the ecology that we now know to be suitable for the growth of The Flower of Life. Let us assume these things and then ask the next logical question-. Who will grow The Flower? Who will process it? For that matter, when is it ready for processing and how is this accomplished? Who at this table has that knowledge? Philisto and I possess a base of general knowledge, but it is all conceptual. The aliens have practical, applicable knowledge. They are a resource- or at least a portion of their population is- that cannot simply be swept into a pit and buried. We will need a labor population at the very least, and to be realistic, for a time we will need a population to _support_ that labor population. The learning curve to acquire all of the knowledge that will make The Flower of Life viable to us is too steep- or will at least take too long to fit into your plans, Supreme General."

"And there is another factor that we are unprepared for.", Jekketh continued as though Darius's contributions had come from his own lips, "Maintaining an unwilling labor population during an occupation-."

"I believe the correct term is _slavery_.", Caldettas said darkly, aware of his own heritage if not dismissive of putting another species into the same condition, "We should at least be honest with ourselves in terminology."

" _Fine-_.", Jekketh said, clearly annoyed at having his point of greater significance interrupted by the formality of labels, "Maintaining a slave population is a scenario that we have never even considered. We have no plans for this kind of eventuality. We haven't even the basic concepts to build one on."

"Then we will improvise."

The words from Supreme General Krymina ended dissension with a single verbal blow. The issue was no longer open to discussions of _if_ but only of _how._

"We are Te'Dak Tohl, and were designed to grapple with the adverse- the Masters did that much well. We will improvise, apply our plan, revise as necessary and we _will_ succeed. –Or does anyone at this table have a compelling reason to believe that it would be easier to take this world and The Flower of Life back from the Invid having let them occupy this world first?"

Silence answered Krymina's final question.

"Order of the day then.", Krymina said, her commanding and organized nature showing through the doubts of her subordinates, "I no longer want to hear why this cannot be done. I only want how, and what is required to achieve our new objective."

"More surveillance.", Jekketh said immediately. He was a warrior in every sense that it applied to the Zentraedi definition. An order had been given, and whether it was to develop a plan never heard of before in Zentraedi history or to run himself upon his own sword, he was going to follow it.

"Detailed surveillance and identification of key alien military positions and population centers on the planet's surface. That's a bare minimal start. As we will now be limited to the amount of orbital bombardment we can use against the planet, it will mean more direct action by ground forces. Our success will depend greatly on the swiftness of our action, and that will depend on identifying key positions to eliminate or occupy."

"Good.", Krymina praised.

Caldettas cringed inwardly in revulsion as Jekketh swelled at the single word. He was correct of course, but Caldettas found himself detesting the fact that it was _Jekketh_ being correct. It did spark an idea in Caldettas's mind though which he formed and shared quickly, if for no other reason than to eclipse the other sub-general for spite.

"We may also want to reconsider the role of the marooned norghil from Dolza's command.", Caldettas suggested.

Jekketh, not to be eclipsed, shot back, "How so?"

"Returning to both your point and Darius's, Jekketh, we have little experience with occupation or the subsequent concerns of occupation. Having been marooned for years now, the norghil of Dolza's command have at least a rudimentary understanding of these aliens. That knowledge will ease the learning curve that Darius spoke of and that you implied. If nothing else, those who will submit to us could at least be a useful buffer between our forces and the alien population. Perhaps they know how to control them."

"Perhaps.", Jekketh said, not quite in a tone of agreement.

"A general question to be tasked to Action Commander Kevtok for the answering.", Supreme General Krymina decided before continuing, "From this moment until I am satisfied with the outcome, we will have three daily sessions at six hour intervals. Your task for the first session will be to identify general concerns that you have with the operational outline that will be provided to you, and your initial recommendations on how to remedy them. This planning will be worked from the top down. We will reconvene in six hours. Dismissed."

Darius rose from his chair atop the briefing table as the ranks of Zentraedi officers dissipated and found Philisto had retreated into himself. Darius was often perplexed by the paradox that was his long-time colleague and friend. Philisto had no difficulty with applying himself to the scientific particulars of an "immoral" task- which most in the service of The Robotech Masters, even at their low level, had been. At the same time the old fool would allow himself to become emotionally bogged down in the immorality.

Philisto was simply in need of the correct stroking or prodding.

"And what now?", Darius asked, preparing for the same conversation he had had with Philisto at least a thousand times before over the course of their acquaintance, and probably half of them since they had come outwardly under the service of Krymina.

"We're sinking to a new level of depravity with this, Darius. You know that, don't you?"

Darius shook his head, "Is facilitating slavery worse than facilitating genocide? Tell me, Philisto- because you were always stronger in the philosophical disciplines than I. If Krymina should accomplish this, perhaps these aliens will even have a future. I doubt they have that chance with the Invid or the Masters. In time, when the Te'Dak Tohl are no longer a factor-."

Philisto knew exactly what Darius was implying. Afterall, the "cure" to The Withering that they had provided was at best a stop-gap, and an intentional one by their design at that.

"-Who knows what they will become?"

"You're shrugging off the gravity of what is being discussed here.", Philisto said in his simple way that never quite came across as harsh as Darius thought Philisto intended it.

"And you are being crushed by the gravity of the inevitable.", Darius countered, "You cannot control the course or flow of a river from a single one of its headwaters. These events are bigger than us, and were set in motion long before we entered the equation."

A small, feeble smile crossed Philisto's face knowing the survivor's logic that Darius was about to use against him. He would beat him to the punch.

"Ride the flood- I know."

 **ASC Salvador Base**

The runway ahead appeared like a gleaming path formed of mother-of-pearl in an emerald setting to Winters. Even this place looked better and was a welcoming sight as both Savage and Cannibal Groups, and of more particular interest to him- Knight Hawk Squadron- were returning without a single ship lost in Operation Back Step.

Winters had been cleared for landing, and _Marilyn_ 's computerized landing cycle had already set the flaps and landing gear for his final approach. He only had to maintain the correct airspeed and keep the nose pointed at the extreme end of the runway and he would be on the ground in minutes.

As Salvador Base grew larger before Winters, he could begin to make out the finer details of the base. The runways central to the post and the web of the runway aprons and tarmacs that supported it. There were the CT-1 transports that he and the Knight Hawks had escorted under their initial orders and before Back Step had intruded on hopes for Rio de Janeiro. The transports were now emptied of their cargo, and perhaps the beach was not so much a remote possibility anymore. Land rovers and personnel on foot could be seen moving from one structure to another, and Winters even looked to the gleaming white home of the base commander to see if he could make him out on one of the porches awaiting the return of the mission he had the primary responsibility for planning. Braddock was not there though, as best as Winters could tell.

In looking to the northern end of the base, Winters did spot a line of large capacity cargo trucks filing in a single line out through one of the gates in the base's perimeter. No doubt this was the beginning of the distribution of supplies that Winters had seen shuttled down, finally getting out to the civilian population. The presence of armed land rovers, and no doubt troops, seemed to support this impression.

Winters did after all know what hungry people were capable of.

Looking forward again, Winters found the concrete of the runway- no longer a band of mother-of-pearl, but a beige path of rectangular segments detailed with painted lines and the black scars of thousands of tires from landing aircraft, gently rising to meet him.

They were open arms to him.

Direction onto the runway apron and then the tarmac that had become but hopefully would not for long be home to Knight Hawk Squadron had been as swift as Salvador Base's landing of the incoming flights of aircraft.

Winters saw as his Valkyrie rolled across the pavement all that he expected to be in place following a combat operation. Medical crews were standing by in case pilots were in need of treatment. Ground and ordinance crews were standing by to similarly attend to the needs of the aircraft and render them free of weapons and safe. There were even fire trucks standing by should one of the limitless unthinkable occur and their services be required.

Amidst it all, Winters saw Lyle waiting to oversee the return and standing down of his aircraft. He had expected this, and it would have been a greater cause for suspicion to not have Lyle waiting with the focus of a racing horse at the gates than to see him in that state. What Winters had not expected to see, and whose presence he could not account for was Major Wang's.

What was more was the S-3's clear agitation as he paced back and forth in a small circuit behind Lyle who was oblivious to him, absorbed rather in counting one by one the return of his "babies".

As Winters was parked, the grounding wire attached to his aircraft, and the engines powered down- Wang was directly on Lyle's heels as the plane captain ascended a ladder pushed into position by ASC support staff.

"Good day?", Lyle asked helping to release the pilot from the same restraining harnesses he had helped secure hours before.

"Stunningly so.", Winters said with equal parts honesty and sarcasm. Wang had not said a thing from where he stood on the ladder steps behind Lyle, but his intent expression caused Winters to jump the gun and say, "Major, you do understand that I have to be allowed to sit behind a keyboard before I can pound out an after action report, don't you?"

"Absolutely sir.", Wang said, his response telling Winters that he had not struck upon the main cause of the junior officer's agitation, "Begging your pardon, Colonel- would you consider anything in your sortie today unusual?"

"You mean by _unusual_ , different from the _garden variety_ combat missions we fly without twenty-four hours notice all the time?", Winters clarified.

"I see your point, Colonel- and if nothing pops to mind then it just may be me-."

"Targets of opportunity?", Winters suggested, cutting Wang off mid-sentence.

Wang nodded, "Yeah, something like that. As a matter of fact, something exactly like that."

Winters handed Lyle his helmet and replaced its protection of his head with his wheel cap as he pulled himself out of his seat.

"Major, I just know I'll regret asking the question that follows, but-. Why should targets of opportunity be of such a great concern to you?"

Wang was always direct in matters of significance, Winters had found, and now was no exception. He said curtly, "Because I don't think they were targets of opportunity."

"Why would you say that?", Winters asked, feeling the cold blade slip into his gut again. It had not begun to turn yet, but it was letting its presence be known.

"It wasn't so much what I saw or heard, sir", Wang explained, "but things that I didn't see or hear."

"Suspicion by omission-.", Winters smirked, "Say that ten times fast for the prize."

"Actually, Colonel, I got glimpses and hints", Wang explained further, "I just got the feeling that I wasn't supposed to see what I saw."

"Got that impression from whom?"

"General Braddock and his staff, sir."

The knife was turning now.

"And what do you propose we do about it, Major?", Winters asked, now truly sorry that he had indeed asked the first question that he had known would bring him grief.

"Well, I'll ask you first", Wang began, "those _targets of opportunity_ \- what were they? Did anything stand out about them in your mind?"

"Not a bloody thing.", Winters said, searching for a pack of cigarettes and finding one to borrow from Lyle's coveralls breast pocket, "And that's what stood out about them. Zentraedi encampments, fine- but hardly worth striking. Three passes on three encampments unleashing the better part of hell on each, and we hardly got even a dramatic secondary explosion. Plus-. Oh, _sod it_ -."

Wang was captivated as though hearing God spin the tale of The Creation.

"Go on, sir, please."

Winters dragged deeply on his cigarette, the long-needed rush of nicotine easing the turn of the blade in his belly somewhat- though not completely.

"It just didn't seem right- for whatever that's worth.", Winters explained vaguely, but as best he could, "The encampments didn't feel _Zentraedi_. They didn't have that feel of military rigor, if you can understand what I mean- not even a softened feel of it."

Wang nodded, "I think I can get my head around that. Look though, we'll pull the disc from your gun cameras and analyze the footage. Hopefully that will disprove our gut feelings."

Winters wondered for a moment if Wang ever felt the knife too. No, probably not. Too young and not enough blood washed from his hands. Winters didn't even bother to think of asking.

"Fine, do it. I can always watch a show."

Neither Wang nor Winters had noticed the ASC land rover that had pulled up directly onto the tarmac not ten meters from the nose of the CO's fighter until its two occupants, whom Wang did recognize as S-3s from Braddock's staff in the JOC approached them both with a salute.

"Colonel, sir.", said the ranking man of the two, a captain, "Welcome back to Salvador."

"Say that by pointing me to the closest cantina.", Winters said lightly, trying to offset the heavy feeling the two men brought with them.

"With pleasure, sir", the captain replied with a smile that in the words of a Japanese proverb, Winters felt, hid a sword, "General Braddock has already made arrangements for an occasion at his residence following debrief this evening."

"Splendid. The 623rd will be in attendance."

The captain hesitated, the heaviness growing heavier and the knife in Winters gut turning deeper, "First though, sir- we've been instructed to collect your aircraft's flight recorder and gun camera discs for assimilation into our tactical database for target battle damage assessment and for filing a commander's after action report."

The shock of the request nearly caused the cigarette to drop from Winters' lips.

"Generally, Captain, we tend to file our AARs at the lower level and then pass them up the chain first. If nothing else, it gives the flight recorder data and gun footage some context.", Winters explained, knowing already that he wasn't addressing the underlying issue.

"Understood, sir- but we have our orders.", the captain explained. As he did so, the lieutenant who was accompanying him placed his hands that had been at his sides behind his back, revealing clearly the large holster and sidearm therein at his hip.

Glancing down the line of Valkyries, Winters became aware that other pairs with apparently the same task were relieving his section of the data storage mediums that they sought.

"Well", Winters said, feeling cold despite the early afternoon heat, "we wouldn't want to cause a ripple, now would we? - _Lyle!-."_

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

"It's nothing- a piece of cake.", Cedric whispered to Andy as he passed him in the hall that connected the training sergeants quarters from the general bunk area of Barracks 61, and of more immediate concern to Andy, to Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae's office.

A line of recruit trainees stood behind Andy, just as mortified at the prospects of what awaited them as Andy had been only moments before. Why others who had preceded them, and there had been nearly a dozen, had not passed on the same calming assurance as they had left was beyond Andy's comprehension. Whether Cedric had passed the word further down the line beyond Andy was also a question he could not answer as his mind had quickly changed gears to the defensive as it was prone to do in these times.

Perhaps it had been a piece of cake for _Cedric_ -.

"C'mon, lad-.", one of the training sergeants who seemed to be standing post outside of O'Shae's door said to Andy, motioning him in, "We're not gonna engrave nofin' fancy for your invitation now-."

Andy stepped into the office surprised that the training sergeant did not bite more viciously. It was a mild relief barely felt in the face of the new terror- being alone in a small room with O'Shae.

The office was barely larger than two broom closets together, but felt roomy because of the spartan decoration (several framed photographs that looked as though they could have come out of a recruiter's pamphlet, and a recruiting poster that surprisingly showed soldiers at work in generic "reconstruction" scene and not in a combat role) the abundant florescent lighting, and O'Shae's immaculately neat desk.

"Recruit Trainee Johnson reporting, sir.", Andy said, standing rigidly at attention. He had nearly forgotten- nearly- but had remembered before O'Shae had picked up on the lapse in protocol. This, and the rather mild greeting of the training sergeant at the door- perhaps there was the possibility that they were human after all.

"Ah, it's the striker.", O'Shae said looking up from an open folder that Andy presumed contained files on him, "At ease, lad- take a seat."

Andy dropped quickly into the single seat opposite O'Shae's desk, not quite sitting at ease. This was the first time he'd heard the training sergeant speak in anything but a full-bore bellow, and he was not determined to push the envelope. It also took a moment for Andy to get over the other humanizing element that he had just noticed in O'Shae- he was wearing wire-rimmed reading glasses.

"Do you know why you're here, lad?"

 _Please God, tell me he didn't see me giving Pamela's ass an eye bathing at dinner- please…._

"No sir."

"Well of course not.", O'Shae said, lowering the dossier folder slightly, "I haven't told you yet- `n if ya knew before the fact, y'd work for Intelligence, wouldn' ya?"

Andy recognized the bridge of levity O'Shae was extending, but not knowing the correct response simply replied, "Yes sir."

"We have these sessions on a daily basis, Recruit Trainee, to discuss your progress. So far, you're doing well. You're keeping up in physical training- though we'll be seeing you stay on the obstacles in the future, I'm sure-."

Andy still could feel the chill that had set into him after falling four meters from the rope line into the pool below earlier that day. It had been a long, soggy, miserable day much as O'Shae had promised. A shower, dry clothes and a respectable dinner had not completely relieved him of the damp and cold, but Andy was determined not to find his way into the pool on his next meeting with The Tangle.

"Yes sir."

O'Shae glanced down at the folder and continued, "Have you a lot of formal schooling, boy?"

"Yes sir- through the completion of secondary school, sir."

"Yes, well while that's becoming more and more common again- sometimes it doesn' a'mean a fart's noise. You've shown high marks on the first of the standard test battery. Keep after that lad, and you could end up going officer. If you survive ole' O'Shae first, that is."

"Yes sir."

O'Shae closed the folder, "Has it gone `round yet?"

"Has what, sir?"

O'Shae smiled, " _The Li'l Prick from Limmerick_."

Andy was at a total loss for words. O'Shae _was_ psychic.

"Truth be known", the training sergeant said as though speaking casually in the pub, "I'm actually from Belfast-. The point is I got the name for a reason. Make it by me, an' y'll have done somethin' lad. You're not there yet. Keep up the effort though, and get outta my office before Beckham misses his shadow. Dismissed."

"Yes sir.", Andy said getting to his feet, turning on his heel, and departing.

Entering the hall of two dozen sets of saucer-eyes, Andy felt numbed by shock and understood why so many recruit trainees had been voiceless in passing. Had he been encouraged?- _Praised?_

"It's alright.", Andy said to the next recruit trainee in line, "A piece of cake."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

Warrior 1st Grade Diharon hated everything about the vile world to which Fate had cast him.

He hated the perpetual damp and heat of the world that caused the smallest of wounds to fester, ruined equipment, and rotted supplies in fractions of their intended lives. He hated the flying, biting, indigenous creatures barely large enough to see but who made their presence constantly known by the sting felt when they came to feed on a warrior's blood. Most of all, Diharon found that he hated micronians.

It wasn't the undefined hatred that he felt for Invid. In truth, in the time since his Awakening and first service aboard a landing ship when Breetai had still been a loyal servant of The Masters and abided by The Warrior's Code, Diharon had never actually seen an Invid or fought one. The thought of them though prompted an aggressive aspect to Diharon's personality that he could neither explain nor had he felt its equal-.

Until he had come to know the micronians.

Diharon felt a hate for micronians that he could trace to its sources as easily as he could have traced his old chain of command when such things were clear. It started with the abandoning of his landing ship, years ago now, in a battle in which he had not been given the opportunity to fire a shot. It continued as he came to know the world on which he had become marooned, where the water alone had killed one in four of his comrades before they had learned to boil it before drinking it. The hate had swelled when the micronians had taken he and others in a surprise attack and instead of providing them with a warrior's honorable end in battle, forced them first to undergo micronization before forcing them into camps to strip them of their warrior's identity.

Diharon, in his time in micronians captivity, had remained loyal to The Warrior's Code- one of the secret fellowship who submitted only outwardly to the dizzying complexities of the life micronians would impose upon them. Secretly though, beneath the false mask of submission, Diharon and countless others bided their time and planned their escape.

Escape.

Escape had been to the sweltering rot of this world's jungles, having never made a day's use of the food or housing vouchers provided by the micronians following the "graduation" from the mind-bending prison camps. Diharon had certainly never shown up for his first assignment of work in the service of the micronians- a task in the specialty of skilled metal work, which the training regiments of the prison camp had taught him.

In their foolishness, they had simply deemed his warrior's spirit defeated and had turned him loose with supposed notions of a world that could be his.

Diharon _had_ a world.

It was a world that did not involve the shaping and bonding of metals. It was a world that did not involve creating a "new future". It certainly wasn't a world that included micronians.

And there were countless others who felt the same way.

Those "others" had not been difficult to find, and they were not all Zentraedi. As the whispers around the prison camps had prophesized, and as innumerable warriors found first-hand, there were micronians who felt precisely the same way. Whether they had been of the micronians military forces, or of the surprisingly large ranks of the non-military forces who burdened without unified purpose- they were quick to reveal the true plan that this world had for Zentraedi.

It was a pleasure- a true act of satisfaction in all that Diharon knew to be a warrior's nature to kill these micronians. Whether alone, or in bands that quickly formed- and whether it was for the legitimate purpose of securing provisions, or just for the sake of fulfilling a warrior's purpose- it was gratifying to join battle with and prevail over these elements of a frail species.

Diharon had not known it when he had first become involved in and skilled at raiding the remote, and mostly poorly defended, posts of these micronians but the path he had put himself upon was one that could only end in meaningless death for him. Granted, it would have been in battle against an enemy, so it would have been a warrior's death and therefore honorable- but it would be a hollow sacrifice.

It had been Yeshta, his clear demonstration of command, and the common warrior's sense of his words that had shown Diharon this. All warriors died eventually, this was true, but not all died in a way that marked them as Zentraedi. Yeshta restored the last element that the micronians had tried to strip from Diharon and thousands of others like him- a unified purpose. They could be warriors again and rid of this world by the outcome of their own sweat and blood.

Diharon hated micronians.

The previous night, he had gone off duty and turned in to his shelter with the form of his salvation within an easy glance. He had been skeptical at first that mere warriors could bring a downed cruiser back to operational condition, but day after day he followed his orders and worked at the task. Day after day, Diharon saw the cruiser slowly returning to life around him. With every light that lit where it had not the day before, with every system that grudgingly whirred to life- he could feel the stars at night seen through the sweltering haze grow that much closer.

Diharon had this when he had turned in the night before. Within the time it had taken him to put on his boots and find a weapon to defend himself, it had been taken away by the micronians.

Micronian aircraft whose shape had become familiar and as hated by the ranks as any Invid had made a swift and devastating assault before the sky had even grown fully lit by the local star. The indefensible carnage of warriors had been limited somewhat to the air defenses, meager as they had been, that had been established to prevent just such a thing. If this had been some favor of Fate though, it had not been an enduring one in Diharon's mind. Before an organized resistance could be formed, grievous damage had been inflicted upon the cruiser which had been the center of labor efforts for as long as Diharon had been in Yeshta's service.

The last Diharon had seen of his salvation before fleeing (much to his disgust and horror) into the jungle was its reduced and burning form, slumped into itself like a creature dying and blowing out its last breath in huge billows of black smoke.

Revolting as retreat had been from the scene of battle. It had quickly become apparent to Diharon that it had been the correct decision. The odd, micronian aircraft that flew by beating the air with rotating blades had arrived soon after Diharon had slipped into the jungle- and with them, micronian warriors. The attention of the micronians centered on the _Salan_ scout- but skirmishing parties had obviously been deployed to pursue the retreating warriors, perhaps as Fate's punishment for cowardice. Where Diharon had come across wounded warriors who had collapsed in the jungle, he soon heard the report of micronian weapons in those locations in his wake thereafter. This was to be expected.

What Diharon had not anticipated, much to his shame, was to come across slain warriors and elements of micronian warrior units coming the other way- from ahead of him. He had nearly stumbled into three such skirmishing parties over the course of the day, and had only evaded the last by shamefully taking refuge in the high branches of a tree like some kind of animal.

The micronians wanted more than the _Salan_ \- they wanted to punish by death all who had labored on it.

Death did not concern Diharon- all warriors died. He did however want to die as a warrior- facing his enemy. Escape was not out of the question- but to where? Diharon had found that he had lost his sense of direction in the jungle, and even if he had not his world had been the encampment around the _Salan_ \- a world he had left burning.

No-. A seasoned warrior had told him once that all warriors had a sense when their own end was near. The best a warrior could hope to do was to meet that end well.

Diharon thought himself ready.

The deep furrow of what looked as though it had been a stream bed at one point in the not so distant past made for an excellent position from which Diharon decided he would make a final stand. The elements were all falling into place as he found a crook in the stream bed which had on either side the benefit of concealment in the form of plant growth. He knelt into the soft, muddy bottom and checked the laser rifle that he had carried since morning without firing a shot.

Stolen from the micronian military, it was no doubt the same model being carried by the warriors whose approach Diharon had heard and who were growing steadily nearer. It was built to their scale and felt flimsy in his hands, but the warrior had grown accustomed to weapons of its type and knew its effectiveness. From this position, and based on his perception of the enemy's movements, he felt confident that he could put a number of them down before they inevitably overran him.

Diharon knelt still and quiet in the stream bed watching the direction from which he knew the micronians would come over the sights of his adopted ASC rifle. Even with its stock at full extension, the length of the weapon was clearly incompatible with the warrior's physical dimensions. Instead, Diharon held the rifle like a trained pistol marksman, controlling with the right hand and balancing on the left palm. The laser rifle had absolutely no recoil as it was an energy weapon, and as long as Diharon's aim was steady there was no valid reason not to shoot from this stance.

In waiting though, Diharon noticed near where his left forearm was braced against the edge of the stream bed, a large rock was partially exposed in the mud. An idea occurred to him- and not an original one. He was already outnumbered though and even if the flash of inspiration did not materialize as he hoped, it could not put him into a significantly worse place. He easily worked the rock out of the soft clay and waited.

The undergrowth at the very edge of Diharon's sight made a gentle, almost imperceptible sway, and as it swung back seemed to spontaneously generate a human form. Diharon recognized the form in a fraction of a second, clad from helmeted head to booted toe in fitted body armor with a rifle identical to his at the shoulder. The figure was still for a moment and seemed to vanish again into the foliage. It was a design attribute to the micronian armor that Zentraedi warriors in the field had quickly come to know and dread. When stationary, the armor's appearance would actually change to adapt to the surroundings. On the move, the feature was useless to the micronians- but when they had it in their minds to set an ambush- it had contributed to the surprise and subsequent death of a good many Zentraedi warriors.

Diharon watched closely the spot where the human warrior had emerged and with some concentration could still make out his form. It was when the micronian's left arm left the rifle's barrel jacket to make a beckoning motion to his rear that Diharon was able to positively confirm his position.

Three more forms, clad in the same body armor and carrying the same rifles emerged at carefully spaced intervals. They continued to move parallel to Diharon's concealed position in a way that the Zentraedi knew meant that they were suspicious of his presence if not aware.

Diharon hefted the rock in a great, over-handed toss that should have sent it arcing clear to the other side of the micronians' path. A fluke of fortune though, a single, low-protruding branch crossed the rock's path and instead sent it down with a crash into the ferns less than six meters from where Diharon knelt.

The micronians whirled in his direction and the Zentraedi's pre-programmed instinct to fight (over the option of fleeing or concealing that had already gotten more than its share of use this day) clicked into play. A quick burst of energy bolts from Diharon's rifle stitched the second warrior in line across the upper abdomen even as he dove for the ground. The Zentraedi had learned to respect the attributes of the micronian camouflaging armor, but they had also learned its weaknesses too. Hitting the wearer at its flex points greatly increased the probability of penetrating the armor whether with an energy weapon or an effective yet obsolete (from the Zentraedi perspective) projectile weapon.

The unwounded micronian warriors went flat, laying out a level plain of rapid-fire laser bolts that exploded out of the undergrowth at Diharon with surprising accuracy and density. A searing pain at the junction of the Zentraedi warrior's neck and left shoulder caused his arms to reflexively jerk up. As his hands and the rifle they held came up, a laser bolt that would have otherwise passed through Diharon's head struck the warrior's rifle just behind the barrel jacket- piercing the laser generator with a dazzling flash and shower of sparks.

Diharon was flat on his back in the mud of the stream bed before he had fully comprehended what had happened. The world was fluttering purple light as he considered his fortune behind stunned eyes. He clearly heard the heavy thud of a grenade land on the bank of the stream behind him, though the significance of the noise did not register with him, nor did Fate's true gift to him in having the grenade roll into the stream bed on the far side of the crook Diharon had chosen for cover.

The explosion of the grenade shocked the prostrate Zentraedi's ears and sent a shower of mud and tattered plant matter raining down upon him- but he had been spared the lethal spray of shrapnel. Diharon's senses were coming back now and they were intact enough for him to realize that without a weapon to defend himself, perhaps being spared the spray of grenade fragments was not as much an act of Fate's benevolence as he had first believed. As his eyesight cleared from a purple glow to a mere haze and he saw two forms in body armor standing on the bank of the stream above him- he was growing more certain.

"How the fuck did the grenade miss him?"

"Because it went in _over there_ , idiot."

"Waste of a grenade, man."

"And of battery juice- put one in his head."

Diharon's vision was clear enough now to see almost normally, only the colors of the world were muted in tone. The two figures above him had been joined now by a third, whom Diharon understood partially in his fair comprehension of one of the many micronian languages.

"Amazigo's pretty fucked up. We need to get him back to the extraction point before his gut gets infected."

"So, are we poppin' this dotto or what?"

"We're supposed to take prisoners, right? And we gotta head back to the LZ anyway-."

"Fuck `em.", said one of the figures, "We're gonna have to carry Amazigo if he's gut shot- sounds like a good reason _not_ to take a prisoner."

Diharon became aware that his neck wound had been superficial and for a moment felt foolish that he'd been taken so easily. Every warrior died though, and he wished that the babbling micronians would just get on with the doing of it.

"Pop `im."

The air split with the sharp crack of energy weapon fire, and for a second time Diharon flinched. A heavy weight fell onto his chest and as there was an exchange of energy weapon reports above him, accompanied by the sharp cry of one of the micronians- it became clear to the warrior in the stream bed that the shot only a moment before had not even been directed at him.

Diharon was pushing the body of one of the micronians who had been debating his death seconds before off his chest in order to determine what was happening around him when the blur of a figure vaulting the stream bed passed over him in the direction from which the micronians had come. The warrior sat up as two single energy rifle reports came from the direction of the micronians original position.

"He's alive."

Diharon felt powerful hands slip under his arms and haul him to his feet in the stream bed, recognizing only then the fact that the words had been not in a micronian language, but Zentraedi.

"Stinks like week-old battlefield, but he's alive."

Diharon turned to face the voice as the figure who had sprung over him returned from where he had gone.

"One of the aliens was wounded, so I put it down."

The voice was female.

Diharon forced himself to fully gather his senses and take in his surroundings. What surrounded him were four Zentraedi warriors, one of them female, clean and the males without any sign of facial hair growth. They wore uniforms that were neither human nor standard Zentraedi, but the weapons they carried- rifles- were clearly of Zentraedi design.

"What's your name, Warrior?", asked the largest of the males, and by the way that the others stood in his presence- no doubt the leader.

"Diharon.", said the warrior, not recognizing his own voice as he spoke.

"I am Action Commander Kevtok.", the officer responded, "Can you move out and keep up?"

Diharon found himself nodding affirmatively, but was sure to make it at least a nod that showed him in possession of his faculties and motor control.

"Good.", said Kevtok, "We have many questions that need answering."

Three more warriors appeared, dressed and armed similarly. As Diharon followed them in a quick, but not rushed, deployment to the south, he did not even think to pick up the weapon of one of the slain micronians. Something about the situation told him that it was best not to. He was not sure, did not even have the first suspicion of who these warriors might be- but in a very real sense he felt he had little choice but to go with them.

Diharon was quite aware that going with these strangers might not be a wise decision for him in the long run, but it could certainly be no worse than remaining alone with micronian warriors on the prowl. There was something else about them too that actually made Diharon want to follow them, despite his apprehensions. It was a sense of order, of a real _unit_ , that the warrior had not felt since being in the ranks before his being marooned on this awful world.

With them, came a strange sort of comfort.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

Miles Davis flowed from strategically placed and concealed speakers as easily as draft beer and hard liquor flowed from behind the bar.

An outsider wandering into the first floor of the ASC base commander General Braddock's home would have been excused for their confusion as they passed from one sitting room and parlor to another. The thick haze of smoke, the omnipresent jazz music, and the generous quantities of alcohol would have led the stranger to believe they were at a cocktail party counting down to the New Year. Only the fact all of the guests bar none wore either ASC or RDF uniforms of one type or another gave any indication that this was not a scene from a civilian social occasion. Indeed, the parallel to the welcoming of the New Year was perhaps not inappropriate. The bar had been open long enough to begin to break down the barriers between units, and nerves tensed by the day's sortie were beginning to relax.

Winters was no longer feeling the cold knife blade in his belly as he had so keenly through a good part of the day. A limitless supply of cigarettes (not his preferred brand, but in these times who could afford to be a snob?), a small glass, and a large bottle of finest quality bourbon had melted the invisible blade in his belly.

The Knight Hawks, who at the beginning of the party had diffused only so much as to mingle with the Vigilantes could now be seen engaged in conversation with the Adventurer II pilots and in many cases even with their ASC counterparts. Demonstrative hand gestures, limited only by the need to hold drinks or cigarettes moved in conjunction with din muted conversations and showed that the time-honored tradition of war stories was now in play. The alcohol allowed the teller to embellish freely while allowing at the same time the listener to accept- a mutually beneficial situation.

The occasion, if not already peculiar enough, was displaced that much more from the feeling of a military function by the fact that the RDF ground crews, almost exclusively NCOs and enlisted, had also been "ordered" to the event by General Braddock. Winters, no stranger and not adverse to seeing NCOs and enlisted at The High Desert Pilot's Social Club, had no qualm with seeing the young men and women normally excluded from the finer occasions that officers were privileged to. If anything, the NCOs and enlisted appeared more apprehensive, staying to themselves in tight clusters mostly in the absence of ASC personnel of their own class. The alcohol had been flowing for some time though, and even they were showing signs of being able to stand easy.

As Winters was topping off his glass with bourbon yet again, Lyle moseyed up to the bar, a tall beer mug in his right hand and with his left thumb tucked into the belt loop of his coveralls. It occurred to Winters in seeing the plane captain that Lyle was in desperate need of a belt with a large, highly polished silver buckle to complete the effect. Lyle though, always the master of improvisation managed to achieve a fully developed image by simply putting a Western boot-clad foot onto the brass foot rail of the bar as he leaned into the counter and spoke to the squadron CO.

"How's she doin' there, pard'?"

Winters took the cigarette out of the corner of his mouth and rubbed it out into a filling ashtray even though there was a good centimeter left to it before he would begin to burn filter. This was apparently an oasis of plenty, and to not live in the moment with reckless abandon just didn't seem like living at all.

"Splendidly.", Winters said lifting the bourbon bottle toward Lyle in an offering gesture, "When are you going to get off of the milk diet?"

Lyle waved away the offering and from his bleary eyes and flushed face, Winters wondered how many times Lyle's mug had been filled and how many more he'd have before he'd be seeing the world in time-delay the way Winters would be at the bottom of his own glass.

"Naw, Ah'm good. Cowhand's champagne."

"You're liver is going to explode like a cluster bomb, Lyle."

The plane mechanic nodded as though acknowledging a commonly known fact, "Yep- `n yers?"

"Like an atom bomb.", Winters said, raising his glass, "Cheers."

"Cheers.", Lyle said, touching glasses with the lieutenant colonel.

"Buster `n Wang `r here.", Lyle said casually over the rim of his mug.

Winters looked back over his shoulder and saw his XO approaching with Major Wang, under his arm. What portion of the arrangement was alcohol-induced familiarity on Dalton's part and what portion was Dalton's need for support, also as a result of alcohol, Winters could not determine.

"Guarding the bar, Jack?", Dalton asked.

"It's tried to scurry off twice now.", Winters replied, "Not sure how though with the blasted room spinning the way it is."

"You got a moment to speak with young Wang here?"

"Call me a neglected housewife-.", Winters replied lifting his glass, "I always have time for wang."

The S-3, considerably more sober than the pilots around him shook off the sophomoric innuendo and cut to the chase.

"Colonel, I'm having trouble getting our flight recorder and gun camera discs back from the ASC staff. They keep stonewalling me."

Winters rolled his eyes, " _Bleeding Christ on the cross-._ Wang, do we really have to do this now? I mean you've got our after action reports, can't you just be like everyone else and take care of the little details tomorrow while nursing a hangover?"

Wang's expression said that he wasn't going to relent before he spoke a single word, "I could, sir- but General Butler wanted our Operational AAR, ASAP."

"See-.", Dalton snickered, amused with himself for what had formed in his head and what was about to spill out, "The MFWIC told the S-3 that he wanted the AAR ASAP or we'd find ourselves SOL and with KP to boot-."

"Coming from me, Freddy, this is going to sound bad- but you've had too much to drink.", Winters said before returning to Wang's concerns, "Alright, Wang, keep your knickers on. Braddock is around here somewhere- I'll ask him for our discs back."

"Politely.", Dalton suggested.

"I'll ask _politely_.", Winters clarified, then offering the bottle of bourbon to the S-3, "Now for Christ's sake, would you have a drink- you're killing my pisser."

Wang shook his head, "No sir, I'm good. I'm going to get some air."

Wang slipped away from the pilots, his demeanor sullen.

Winters was in the process of wrestling with his conscience when Dalton, uninvited to the contest, took the side of the angel.

"You didn't have to blow him off like that, Jack.", Dalton said, raising a glass to Winter's holding the bourbon bottle, "He's just doing his job, for God's sake. He's accountable for letting Butler know what's going on here."

Winters filled the glass that still contained a sip of what might have been scotch, though at this point it was clear that Dalton didn't care about cross-contamination of his spirits.

"Good bloody luck to him.", Winters said not liking the feeling of being chastised in the process of his drinking, " _God_ doesn't know what's going on around here. If he figures it out though, have him send me a copy of the report because I'm dying to know. The only thing Wang'll get out of our gun cameras is what we've told him a dozen times apiece- it was a bloody massacre- _literally_."

Dalton knew it was time to ease off the topic, "You need another drink."

"Damn right.", agreed Winters, tipping his glass in a salutation to his XO before emptying it, "Goddamn right."

"He ought'ta just geyt it off'a tha Glamour's back-up box.", Lyle said distantly, as though participating in another conversation.

Winters' jaw slackened with the considerable effort of comprehension, "What?"

Lyle shrugged, "Just geyt it off'a the back-up recorder box on the VC-33- we was hooked in on InfoLink."

Winters and Dalton exchanged a disgusted look which Winters was not certain whether it stemmed from the fact that both he, his XO, and the S-3 had forgotten basic, RDF-AF operational SOP, or that it had taken Lyle to remind them. For data assurance and redundancy purposes, it was required that RDF support aircraft archive the stream of signals passing through InfoLink during combat sorties. Generally this function was handled by supporting AWACS or JSTARS aircraft- but in their absence, the duty had fallen to the VC-33 cargo plane that had shuttled Knight Hawk Squadron's support staff and equipment down to Salvador Base, and had likely also been done by the CT-1 transport that had accompanied the Vigilantes and the Nellis's attack wing.

"You know, Lyle", Winters said , "it's people like you that cause unrest in the world. Who wants to catch Wang?"

"I thought we were guarding the bar?", Dalton said.

" _I'm_ guarding the bar- get your own alibi.", Winters said.

Lyle reached across the bar to the stack of cigarette packs that had been laid out by the barman, "Speakin'a which, Ah'd oughtta geyt some smokes out ta mah boys. They're babysittin'."

"I was wondering.", Winters said, lying, and referring to the absence of Lyle's Zentraedi subordinates at the party. Most Zentraedi did not drink, granted, but they normally could not resist the lure of cigarettes.

Lyle looked as though he was going to say one thing, but then his expression changed and he said instead, "Say, what'd the proctologist say?"

"What?", Dalton asked, his response not a clear desire to hear a punch line, but perhaps his inability to follow Lyle's change in conversational direction.

" _Great, here comes another asshole._ ", Lyle said, setting his beer mug down on the bar. Tipping his hat back, he excused himself from his superiors' company, saying, "You boys have a time of `er now."

Lyle's proctologist quip made sense as Lt. Col. Mathias stepped into the circle of conversation that Lyle had just vacated. The officer carried a goblet of brandy that could have doubled in purpose as a fish bowl. Winters had not pegged Mathias as being a default brandy drinker, not that he had applied much thought to the subject, but it didn't seem to fit. Or maybe it did. So many things here were forced into becoming what they were not that maybe the pairing of Mathias and an element of elegance did make sense in an odd way.

The evenly burning cigar the pilot carried seemed to fit him much better, with the exception again that maybe it was too high quality for Mathias in Winters' opinion.

"Not going to mix it up, you two?", Mathias asked, his softly glazed eyes working over the crowd where a number of cocktail dress-clad young women had begun to appear in force, "You're missing the party."

Winters glanced quickly at one of the young women whose body language toward one of the Grey Owls was very _friendly_. They were clearly local, or if not local than regional- and likely at the party for no better reason than the way they looked in their dresses. Winters didn't suspect that they were on Salvador Base's regular staff- though they were likely "on staff" somewhere, in both senses of the phrase.

Winters found himself missing Rio in her mousey ways, and even missing the cramped camper he called home and the way that it rattled in the desert's night winds.

"I've mixed it up plenty today, thanks.", Winters said as he spotted several of his own pilots engaging one-on-one with the black velvet bandits in what was becoming a social furball, "Can I offer you a drink?"

"That's mighty white of you.", Mathias said, raising his goblet, "But I'm covered."

"Thought I'd offer.", Winters said, "It's your booze after all."

Dalton had grown fidgety with Mathias's proximity and made a quick excuse to abandon Winters to him in favor of escape, "Well, I'd better play den mother and make the rounds. No need to bring back new VDs to Edwards if we can avoid it."

Mathias scoffed and said after him, "What are you trying to say?"

Winters watched his XO depart to shepherd the Knight Hawk flock. As Mathias was no longer watching him, Dalton took the opportunity to mouth the single word, " _asshole_ ", back in his direction and for his CO's amusement.

"Cigar?", Mathias asked, holding a glass tube containing a cigar like his up for Winters.

"Yes, it is.", Winters replied, rubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bar and taking the offering.

Mathias motioned his head toward a set of French double doors that led out onto the home's side porch.

"Come on, we'll burn `em outside."

Looking around at the thick haze of smoke in the large parlor, Winters shrugged and took his glass and bottle with him as he followed Mathias away from the bar.

"Sure. Why spoil the air quality inside?"

As was true at any military base, the Operations Center was never completely at rest. Stood down with a skeleton staff it scarcely resembled the nexus of activities that it had been only hours earlier during the execution of Operation Back Step. Now, quite the reverse, unmanned and darkened workstations, whirring racks of computer equipment, and idle displays now far outnumbered the uniformed ASC staff on duty.

Major Wang swept his ASC identification badge, provided to him upon arrival by the personnel staff, through the card reader outside of the OC's main entrance. The otherwise featureless black box beeped twice to indicate that it had read the magnetic strip on the card, and then buzzed its denial to Wang's access. Wang looked at the back of the card to verify that he had indeed passed the magnetic strip side through the card reader, and having confirmed that, swiped the card again.

The black box buzzed stubbornly and there was no loud click of the door's lock releasing.

"Oh, you _bitch_.", Wang muttered quietly to himself, feeling his face flush as a third swipe of the card was replied to with a third buzz of denial.

Without warning, the door handle turned and the OC door swung inward. An ASC lieutenant half-stepped out, nearly running into Wang. Not having expected to see the officer, and certainly not expecting to nearly collide with him, the junior officer looked apologetic before a word was said.

"Sorry about that, Major.", the ASC S-3 said, moving aside while holding the door open with one arm in a clear invitation.

Wang did not have any hesitation in taking advantage of the lieutenant's distraction.

"Thank you, Lieutenant.", Wang said, stepping through the doorway, "Be careful though- someone's liable to get hurt."

"Yes sir."

As the door shut electronic lock snapped into place again, Wang got the distinct feeling that he was in forbidden territory. It was the same, tight, giddy feeling he used to get as a boy when going through his older brother's room looking for dirty magazines. Wang could not explain it. He was cleared to have access to the Operations Center, as its activities were his occupation. To bar an S-3 from the command post was analogous to banning a pilot from the base's hangars. Still, there was that feeling.

If Wang felt it distinctly, then the half dozen or so ASC staff officers and enlisted personnel did not seem to notice at all. Wang considered this and tried to think down the butterflies in his stomach as he passed the nook where he had spent the better part of his day and where the RDF equipment was still, minus several removable drives containing classified data and files.

"Can I help you, Major?"

Wang started out of his world of inner thought at the words of the ranking officer on deck, an ASC captain who looked relieved- probably at the prospect of something breaking the monotony of a night shift, Wang supposed.

It took Wang a moment to reply, since in fact he had not thought far enough ahead to come up with a good story for his presence.

"I'm not sure, Captain.", Wang said, glancing around, "I was sent to collect up the discs from the RDF contingent. Can you point me in the right direction?"

The Captain nodded, "Sure- they just finished up with them about an hour and a half ago. Can't imagine why you need them at this hour though."

"Reports to file- you know the deal.", Wang said, following the captain across the OC to a suite of workstations.

"Do I ever-.", the captain laughed, "That's how they cleared the forest for this base you know, all of the paperwork."

A plastic crate with carrying handles sat on the corner of the nearest workstation. The captain motioned toward it, "All yours."

"Thanks.", Wang said, taking the moderately heavy box of laser disc-loaded cartridges up by the handles and turning to leave.

"Oh, hey!-.", the ASC S-3 called after Wang, "Don't forget these!"

Wang turned to see the captain holding up another box, this one the size of a loaf of bread.

"Thanks.", Wang said, allowing the captain to deposit the smaller box on top of the larger.

Wang turned for the door again and began to walk. As he passed the duty station he'd been assigned to earlier that day, irresistible curiosity grabbed him by the swivel-hook.

The S-3 set the boxes down on top of the glass face of the dormant holographic map table and with an ease of familiarity flicked on the power switches to several interconnected pieces of RDF hardware. As the portable computer systems powered-up and ran through their starting processes, Wang took a data recorder cartridge from the large box at random.

The cartridge divulged its affiliation with one of the Vigilante Valkyries only by the aircraft tail number stenciled onto the cartridge label. Wang glanced up and saw the computer system was now fully up and awaiting use. He inserted the cartridge into a multifunctional media slot and opened the computer's viewing function.

An index of event codes appeared in the menu box, and Wang selected one with no better reason than it was the first to catch his eye.

On a portable monitor, a color video image of moderately high quality appeared. The aircraft on which the camera had been mounted was in a shallow dive, and after three seconds of the footage running, the flash and burn of a departing missile filled the screen. The weapon, a Maverick, sped away silently in the absence of an audio portion to the video toward a large building structure standing very near to the spacecraft that had been the object of the day's operations. It reached the building which flew apart with the detonation of the weapon's warhead.

"Boom.", Wang said as the video clip ended.

The menu appeared on the screen again and in quick study, Wang found entries with a weapon's serial number and the same time and event index stamps. He could have watched the same missile strike from the missile's perspective, but the S-3 had little interest at the moment.

He pulled the cartridge from the slot and dropped it back into the box and prepared to leave.

Curiosity had Wang firmly again in its grip before his was set on the large box of cartridges. Removing a cartridge from the smaller box that the ASC captain had given him separately, Wang read the label and found it to be from a Valkyrie of Knight Hawk Squadron.

The S-3 inserted the cartridge into the terminal slot and waited. As before, the menu box appeared- only this time there was no listing of time or event codes. The cartridge was blank.

Wang felt his lower lip make the downward turn that his mother had never been fully successful in driving out of him. The "pout" worsened as Wang replaced the first cartridge with a second, also from Knight Hawk Squadron, and with the same result. An empty menu, implying a blank disc- or an erased one.

Wang pulled the second cartridge from the slot and nearly dropped it.

He hadn't been expecting the three armed ASC MPs to be standing behind him. Across the OC, a lieutenant colonel who Wang recognized as being one of Braddock's S-3 staff was quietly but intently applying verbal discipline to the captain who had returned the data cartridges to Wang's control. The detail that the senior MP had his hand on his sidearm was not lost on Wang either.

"Major, sir- we're going to have to ask you to come with us."

Winters sat with one leg on the wooden porch railing and his back against a post as he enjoyed the mild smoothness of the cigar that Mathias had given him and watched the curls of smoke drift off into the darkness. The humidity of the night air was as clinging as ever, but the edge of heat was dulled significantly and Winters found it almost comfortable.

Mathias stood nearby, looking out into the night and with the appearance of a man who should have been speaking politics or finance at a gentleman's club- with his cigar in one hand and brandy goblet in the other.

"You guys really pulled through today. Filled some crucial gaps in our force- probably saved some lives."

Winters made a noise that was equal parts laugh and grunt. They _had_ done a lot that day for Operation Back Step- though Winters' first inclination was not to equate it with saving lives. It was probably true though if you read through the lines of what Mathias had said to hear what he had meant, "saving the _right_ lives".

"Of course", Mathias continued in his _de facto_ monologue, "one way or the other, they're gonna want to kick back."

"Dropping several tons of ordinance on someone has a tendency to evoke that response.", Winters said, tapping the ashes of his cigar into the flower bed that was below the porch, "It would seem it's a universal trait."

"You let them work on your planes though?", Mathias said, referring Winters realized after a moment to Lyle's Zentraedi subordinates, "And that don't bug you?"

Winters shrugged, "I don't think about it. That's Lyle's bit. We've got to get used to them being in the world, or so they tell me."

Mathias laughed, "Yeah, so they say. Me, I can do without `em. But hey, that's me. Does that make me a racist? I d'know… Is that _racism_?"

"Something like it, probably.", Winters said, "I think we've all done worse than not wanting to hold hands with the domesticated Zentraedi."

"Sure.", agreed Mathias. The ASC lieutenant colonel paused for a long time, seeming lost in thought, "You don't strike me as a military man, Winters."

Winters rolled his cigar between his thumb and forefinger, more interested in watching it through bourbon goggles than he was in following the conversation with Mathias, "Really? They gave me a uniform-. Hell, they even let me carry a gun- silly bastards."

Winters tapped his glass against the grip of the .44 holstered to his upper thigh.

"What I mean is that you just don't seem to like it.", Mathias said.

Winters shrugged again, "It likes me- or maybe it used to and it just keeps me around for giggles. Who knows? _It_ and I don't talk much anymore, and about _it_ even less."

"So why do it if you hate it so much?", Mathias asked, sitting on the same railing as Winters within comfortable talking distance.

"I didn't say I hated it."

"You didn't say you liked it either."

"Not everything falls into one category or the other. For Christ's sake, are we going to start debating philosophy now?"

It was Mathias's turn to shrug, "Just trying to get a handle on you, that's all."

"Are you planning on setting me up with your sister or something?"

"She's already married."

"My condolences.", Winters said, moving the bourbon bottle to fill his glass and realizing he had reached that point of intoxication where the simple acts of motor coordination were no longer simple. He found himself continuing the conversation and realized that he really _was_ drunk, "Hell, I started so long ago, I can't even remember why I joined. I guess I stuck with it because I was good at it. That's a shitty reason to do something, you know? -Because you're good at it. I guess I never really looked to see if I was good at anything else. _Hell_ \- who cares anyway? There's job security and the pay is phenomenal."

Mathias laughed, "Yeah, that it is. Retirement will be a bed of roses if anyone lives to see it."

Winters raised his glass, "I'll drink to that."

"You're a handy guy, Winters, a handy guy in a pinch.", Mathias said, puffing on his cigar, "You wouldn't consider sticking around, would you?"

"Miss me already do you?"

"Don't flatter yourself. Just asking if maybe you see yourself flying the supply runs again, that's all."

"Maybe.", Winters said bleakly, "My boss hates me, and that's on a good day."

"Well, another reason to look forward to retirement.", Mathias said.

"Who can afford to?", Winters laughed thinking more of the prospect of living out his days in his camper- or more appropriately at The High Desert Pilot's Social Club. If nothing else, the RDF did help pass the time.

"I guess that depends on how open you are to opportunities that present themselves."

Winters shook his head, still snagged on the thought of what "daily life" would be without what he had been doing since he had been a young man, "I'm not following you."

Mathias swirled his brandy in its goblet, "Well, consider this if you think the supply route may be in your future. We have certain transport needs outside of the Control Zone- not large ones, but _discrete_ ones. Let's say that. Let's also say that there's a certain _gratuity_ involved in assistance."

Winters felt the bourbon draining from his veins, "Who's _we_? And what's in need of transport?"

Mathias looked reluctant, " _We_ is a lot of people who don't really need to be named, I don't think-. Hey, look- we're just talking here, and you really don't sound too keen on continuing the conversation."

"I don't know that I am.", Winters said, trying to summon the strength in his legs to stand, but not finding it as quickly as he would have liked.

"Consider the conversation over then.", Mathias said.

"I think I will.", Winters agreed.

Mathias rose with greater ease and motioned to Winters with his goblet again, "Enjoy that cigar now. Let me know if there's anything else I can get you."

Winters wasn't certain why he was bringing it up with Mathias, but the invitation had been made, "Can you get a hold of our flight recorders for Wang? He's about to crawl out of his skin."

"I'll see what I can do.", Mathias said, "He's kinda squirrelly, that one. He should loosen up a little. Being that tense is bad for your health."

 **UES** _ **Hyperion**_ **,**

 **186km southeast of Cuba**

"Attention all hands, attention all hands-.", came loudly and clearly across the ship's public address system, "Secure from dark ship running- exercise complete. The smoking lantern is lit on all weather decks and in all designated areas."

Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura "Takeo" Kusunoki stood outside of the path of activity as the bay doors to the engine workshop- which spanned nearly the entire beam of the ship at the fantail- opened. As the doors parted, the mild, night sea air swirled into the large hangar-style compartment- flushing away the smells of mechanical cleaning chemicals and engine lubricants.

Kusunoki had wandered aft to the engine workshop following an instruction session he had been briefing in Ready Room 4 to check on the progress that had been made on fixing a power "flutter" in his Valkyrie's starboard engine. The exercise of rigging the _Hyperion_ to run "dark ship" had commenced in his transit through the carrier's seemingly endless maze of passages and corridors- and as none of his duty stations participated in the task of rigging for dark ship, he was unaffected.

The process mostly involved the extinguishing of running and interior lighting of the super carrier, including the draping of all portholes and closing of all elevator, hangar, and workshop bay doors. This being done, and in the right night conditions, the carrier virtually disappeared from sight on the open sea.

This was no small accomplishment, as the _Hyperion_ belonged to the _Prometheus II_ Class of nuclear-powered aircraft carriers, the pride and crowning accomplishment of the RDF-Navy's surface fleet, and by far the largest sea-going warship ever constructed by man. At just over 520 meters in length and displacing 107,400 metric tons the _Hyperion_ and her five sisters of the class were roughly 50% larger than the first runner-up in terms of naval warship construction, the venerable _Nimitz_ Class of the former United States Navy- of which three still roamed the oceans having survived both The Global War and The Zentraedi Holocaust. Only the now extinct maritime species of the super oil tanker surpassed these warships in size, though this was their only measurable area of superiority. Boasting three Westinghouse nuclear reactors, powering steam turbine engines that in turn drove four shafts whose propellers spanned ten meters- the _Prometheus II_ Class was able to make a highly impressive 39 knots and sustain it. Sprints of greater speed had been achieved, though while the cumulative engine output for all four shafts was equal to 320,000 horsepower it had been found that employing the engines to the maximum had the potential of overstressing the hull.

The very presence of a sea-going aircraft carrier- of a surface fleet for that matter- had been argued as anachronous by some in an age when starships capable of traversing cosmic distances were being produced at a steady pace. The old-time, "flat top" admirals still had enough sway and clout to keep an active surface fleet in service though. Indeed, _Hyperion_ like all of her sisters boasted a number of battle stars proving that though diminished, their existence was still relevant. The fact that many a space cruiser in the space-going fleet could not claim the same was a point of smug pride for the flat top admirals.

Kusunoki personally favored service on a traditional flat top over a space cruiser. REF pilots had a more glamorous position, mostly because of the attention of the press- true. It was not glamour that Kusunoki sought though. His aspirations could be found in the meaning of his callsign, "Takeo"- meaning "warrior"- and possibly stemmed at a genetic level, he sometimes mused, from his lineage that could be traced back to the shogun Macashige Kusunoki of feudal era fame. _Hyperion_ had seen her share of combat operations, mostly supporting actions in The Control Zone, and Kusunoki- as her senior pilot and fighter group commander had a part in all of them.

Also, service aboard a traditional flat top had a nostalgic quality that Kusunoki freely admitted being enamored with. Those serving on space cruisers never experienced the split and curl of the waves at the ship's bow, nor could they step out on deck and smell the sea air. In Kusunoki's mind, this alone warranted the existence of the carriers.

"Chief!", Kusunoki called, spotting Senior Chief Petty Officer McKlin amongst the crowd of engine mechanics swarming in organized chaos around the various stations of the workshop.

McKlin, somehow knowing that the call was to him though half of the company present could have responded to the title of "Chief", turned and saw the pilot. He waved and then motioned the lieutenant commander over to join him.

Kusunoki made his way across the crowded yet tidy deck to find McKlin standing beside the starboard engine of his Valkyrie as it was being hoisted into a mount that would be swung into place and secured on the fantail to test the repair work.

"I fly in twelve hours, Chief.", Kusunoki said as he watched mechanics under McKlin securing clamps to the engine's securing points, "Am I going to have a whole Valkyrie, or am I going to have to have someone push?"

McKlin looked taken aback, "Yes sir, Commander- you'll have a whole plane! Just have to get through the minor detail of making sure the converter pre-stage holds up. Unless of course you just want to take my word for it."

Kusunoki shook his head, "As much as I trust you- I don't think my plane captain will tolerate that."

"Don't sweat it, Commander.", McKlin assured him, "We're gonna burn `er in for an hour- have it back in your captain's hands within two-. You ought to be asking him if he can have it in place by the time they want to shoot you off the deck. That's the long pole in the tent."

"I won't tell him you said that.", Kusunoki said, knowing the healthy rivalry that existed between the aircraft maintenance specialties aboard the carrier.

"Go ahead- he's got no problem bustin' my balls."

"I'll send your regards if I meet him in passing, Chief.", Kusunoki said as he turned to leave the workshop.

The walk forward through the storage and hangar spaces to the starboard side stairwell that ascended to the flight deck just aft of "The Island" took considerably less time than the walk aft through "The Honeycomb" as a matter of fewer obstructions to negotiate. As alive as the passages had been with crew, the hangar deck was equally active with movement. As Kusunoki reached the stairway he had set out for, deck tractors were moving four Valkyries of his squadron, the Stormy Petrels, toward Elevators 1 & 2\. The flight deck had been secured during the dark ship exercise, but B Flight, 1st Section of the Stormy Petrels would be airborne in under twenty minutes to fly combat air patrol for the carrier. For the moment though, the flight deck would still be relatively quiet, and Kusunoki could enjoy the night.

A steady breeze, mostly the result of the ship's speed, was sweeping the deck from fore to aft as Kusunoki emerged from below. The flight deck crew, wearing vests and helmets of varying colors to indicate their roles and responsibilities on deck scurried about to prepare the ship to launch and receive aircraft again. They did not acknowledge Kusunoki's presence, nor did he do anything that might interfere with the conduct of their duties. Flight deck operations were in many ways the heart of the vessel's being, and perfectly choreographed for the exact number of personnel involved. The slightest interference could wreak havoc. For this reason, Kusunoki rounded "The Island", the tower containing the carrier's bridge and combat information center, outboard to starboard. Forward of the tower, he might find less activity.

To his pleasant surprise, forward of the tower, Kusunoki found only a single catapult crew securing a bar between the shuttle of Catapult 6 (an auxiliary catapult used mainly for the launch of light aircraft and drones) and an RQ-6A "Global Hawk II" JTUAV. _Hyperion_ carried half a dozen of these, and several other classes, of unmanned air vehicles, and it was not uncommon to see them deployed prior to combat operations. They provided crucial, real-time intelligence to the operational staff in the carrier's CIC during combat operations- often loitering in an orbit over an area of operations while the bombs fell and sending it all back as video and other sensory data. For all its capabilities, the Global Hawk II's best attribute in Kusunoki's mind was that it provided this data without risking the life of a pilot.

As the catapult crew secured the JTUAV to the shuttle and then cleared away, the large drone's single pusher-propeller engine at the rear whirred to life, electrically driven. Kusunoki wondered briefly to where and why this particular JTUAV was being deployed as there were no planned combat operations that he was aware of. His suspicion, and a well founded one, was that the JTUAV was being tasked with some intelligence mission or another.

A hiss of high-pressure steam, and the Global Hawk II rocketed 150 meters along the run of the catapult's shuttle track before lifting away from the deck, banking right to the south, and disappearing into the dark night.

Before the cloud of steam had swept off the deck, Kusunoki had already given up speculation on the JTUAV's purpose in flying this night and its destination. If it was intelligence tasked, then the pilot charged with getting it off the carrier's flight deck (from a station in the CIC) probably didn't even know the mission details. He would be handing off control to another pilot somewhere ashore who would execute the mission by satellite-linked control.

It was just as well for Kusunoki to forget ever having seen the departure of the Global Hawk II. Perhaps it was headed for Brazil and The Control Zone, who knew? Who cared?

The sea was far too calm and fair, and the night far too pleasant.

296


	7. The Devil You Don't Know

**Chapter Six**

 **The Devil You Don't Know**

" _…The best laid plans of mice and men…_ I can never remember the whole of the poem, and why should I?- I never read it. It isn't really that important because I know what Joyce was saying- or maybe it's what Steinbeck was saying?- one of the two anyway."

"I think that the real bliss of childhood is the notion that by always standing upright and doing what you think is right, that the outcome of even the worst situations will be rosy. _Bull._ You become an adult when you realize that standing upright in some situations will get you your head cut off, and that always doing what you think is right sometimes doesn't sway a situation one way or the other in the slightest. Adults have to come to grips with the fact that sometimes they're just along for the ride and the ride can be a wicked one. The best laid plans of mice and men, right?"

Mr. Lilith

 **The Amazon River Basin**

Lt Whilite braced himself, knowing that nothing good could come of the signs around him.

The previous morning he and 3rd Platoon of Echo Company had broken camp and set out on the day's planned patrol under the distant thunder of battle. Sound in the jungle acted much as sound to the naked ear underwater- it was distorted. At times the screech and roar of jet engines, and the popping and booming of detonating ordinance had seemed to come from the other side of the world while at times it sounded as though the world underfoot might come to an abrupt and violent end. All the while birds and animals fled the man-made tempest oblivious or at least unconcerned at meeting and passing the Ranger patrol in its transit through their habitat.

3rd Platoon had encountered the smell early that morning after setting out on patrol from their new listening post position.

It had come to Whilite first as the familiar and slightly comforting smell for all of its associated memories of wood smoke. True to smoke's nature, it first permeated and then overwhelmed all other odors of the jungle before it was seen even as the finest of hazes. Whilite had welcomed the drifting smell, as this gave him justification to leave his well-defined patrol pattern to investigate under a loophole in the operational rules. Perhaps a strictly dutiful Ranger would have been justified and not entirely out of place to point out to the platoon leader that the investigation of something that by the virtue of fire was likely a "fixed position" was not in line with the operational objectives of determining rogue Zentraedi _movement._ Perhaps if strictly dutiful, a Ranger might have justifiably stated this. The Rangers of 3rd Platoon though, disciplined as they were, still had the core flaw of being human and susceptible to curiosity.

The entire platoon had heard the sounds of battle the previous day, and undoubtedly were all asking the same questions about the circumstances surrounding it. A _brief_ deviation from plan within the allowances of operational rules to get some answers to gnawing questions could not do _measurable_ harm to the operation's outcome.

Tracking the smell of smoke to its source was not difficult, requiring only that the Rangers stop periodically to make sure they were traveling into the wind. As the smell had grown stronger and the first visual indications of smoke came with the building light of day, Whilite wasn't entirely certain that he and his Rangers wouldn't just happen across a remote settlement of slash-and-burn farmers, as there were known to be still in the rain forest.

This thought, a plausible if not unsatisfying one was still a happier scenario to what the lieutenant and his command began to think as the smell of smoke began to take on other aromatic hints and tones within the predominant wood smoke odor.

The residue of synthetic explosives had a very distinct smell to it, and one that any soldier who had undergone basic infantry training was quick to recognize.

Burning flesh had a distinctive odor too.

It was the heavy, fatty, charred odor- like a finely marbled steak left too long on a charcoal grill that was burning too hot- that made Whilite rethink and regret his eagerness to investigate that first hint of smoke. As the stench of burnt flesh was joined by that of decomposition, Whilite's regrets deepened though he now had stronger justification and in truth, obligation, to investigate

 _What was the old adage about being careful what you asked for?_

Dense foliage lined the southern edge of a slashed clearing and provided good cover from which Whilite and 1st Squad could observe without fear of detection. Denuded tree stumps, weather-smoothed but still blackened from the fires that had doubtlessly cleared the land for habitation showed the village to be established and not new. Paths were worn into the earth between and around crude hut structures, where they stood and where others apparently _had stood_ showing the routes and relative volume of regular foot traffic.

Of the huts, or _sheds_ as they struck Whilite, that were still standing, a uniform motif of improvised construction prevailed. Wood crate panels, particle board, corrugated plastics and metals, tarps and canvas all came together in patchwork construction of hovels that looked every bit the part that they played as back-woods dwellings. Whilite, using a pair of field glasses, was able to make out details in the construction of one shack that seemed to indicate that it could and in fact had been taken apart (presumably to be moved) and reassembled. Whilite reasoned that despite the established feeling of the camp that this style of shelter indicated a migrant population- slash-and-burn farmers. He would have liked to have corroborated the suspicion by seeing another hovel of similar style- but the shack was one of only three standing and the only one easily studied.

The encampment _had_ apparently been one of nearly forty semi-permanent structures, and _had_ apparently been active with a proportionate population- but at a glance it had also been savagely gutted.

"Looks like a damn hurricane passed through.", Staff Sergeant Byerly commented, surveying the village without use of field glasses.

Whilite's first impression, perhaps because of their greater frequency in Missouri, had been _tornado_ \- but the sum effect was the same. Smoldering pieces of what had once been shacks now lay in joined, flattened heaps and strewn about like a jigsaw puzzle that had been completed and then pushed from a tabletop to the floor.

"Yeah, or Godzilla-.", Whilite replied, though an attack by the king of movie lizards was somewhat less likely.

In truth, there was no question as to what had butchered the village- and it would have taken a blind man deliberate effort not to perceive it.

Trails of evenly spaced impact craters pock-marked the village giving it the look of a World War I "No Man's Land"- minus the sepia-colored hue of an aged photograph. Each trail was indicative of and marked clearly the careful walking of cannon shells through an aircraft's strafing run and could not be mistaken for clumsy artillery saturation or mortar fire.

"I don't see any people-.", Byerly said, then added, "-Or Zentraedi. What's the call, Lieutenant? Do we go in and check it out?"

Whilite was hesitant, "I don't know, Sergeant-. We've got no idea of who's creeping around. Even if we don't get in a tangle, we could give ourselves away."

"Sure.", agreed Byerly, "Something isn't right here though. We've got signs of an air strike- but this ain't a Zentraedi camp. And they only knocked over the hooches-. What are those over there?"

Whilite followed the direction in which Byerly was looking and found that he had been so focused on the obliteration of the structures before him in the encampment that he had not registered the half dozen long, rectangular structures still standing in relatively good condition. Constructed of similar, possibly slightly higher quality materials as the flattened hovels- these structures were clearly for storage.

"To hell with it-.", Whilite resolved. He had already gone off mission, come too far, and had too many questions to walk away without answers. If nothing else, he reasoned with himself, he would need some kind of justification in his report to Capt. Nguyen. Whilite was certain now that there was something vile to be found here, there was that feeling in the air that came with cruel and evil deeds- and the smell of decaying flesh was now quite prominent.

"Have the platoon disburse and sweep the outskirts of the encampment- set up a thirty meter perimeter. Once we're secure, you and I will take your squad in- and get Doc over here- it's a good bet we could need her."

"Yes sir."

Whilite flipped back the cover on his PICS interface pad and marked the map location. Whether it was of any significance or not, this village and whatever had happened here would be a matter of operational record now.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

Major Tomas Santino Juan-Pedro Mencia "Maverick" Cruz, 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron awoke without any outward indication of doing so- though _he_ knew he was waking to the inevitable consequences of a night of much-needed debauchery.

His head, no longer awash in the soothing lubrication of whiskey-sours and later (to the best of his hazy recollection) straight shots of whiskey, throbbed with each surge of blood that his heart pumped. He could still taste the booze ( _good_ booze), the cigarettes, and- the girl? There had been a girl- hadn't there? _Oh yes, there had been a girl._ He had not been so drunk, and he was not now so hung over that the memory of her was clouded.

Laying- _somewhere_ (Cruz was not sure where he would find himself when he finally mustered the courage to open his eyes)- he was aware of movement nearby that was undoubtedly the girl, and which had waken him.

Now came that "morning after moment" when Cruz would have to decide whether to give himself away as awake and contend with the awkwardness of having done _things_ with someone whose name he could not readily conjure- or feign sleep and simply let her slip away in anonymity. Normally not a tough choice- and certainly not when deployed to a region far from base where the likelihood of a chance meeting in the future was slim.

Still, from what Cruz remembered with the aide or despite the effects of Irish whiskey, she had been a phenomenal sight in her black cocktail dress- and more so out of it. A last peek was in order.

Cruz opened his eyes slightly, just cracking them to slits the way a child did when pretending to sleep while actively watching something to be seen discretely. The girl was there, and from what Cruz could tell, "there" was in his ASC provided room at the bachelor officers' quarters. She had found her way back into the wonderfully fitting cocktail dress, which despite how easily it had come off was a great feat. Cruz admired the curves of her body in the mercifully dim light, and with what he remembered of the night before considered with satisfaction that he had accomplished something.

It was during this moment of self-impressing recollection that Cruz realized that the girl was far too active to simply be dressing herself again. With her back turned to Cruz and the bed, it was safe for the pilot to open his eyes fully.

The young woman was quietly, though thoroughly sorting through the contents of his emergency escape kit. Having had lost identical kits in the past to unscrupulous personnel in forward areas, Cruz always made a point of taking with him the carbon fiber case that was designed to eject with the pilot of a Valkyrie should the need to do so occur. Containing the supplies to sustain a person for five days in hostile territory, it was generally for the medical supplies- morphine in particular- that the kits were most often stolen. This was what Cruz initially thought the woman was after.

Under her left arm was tucked the unmistakable shape of the escape kit's five, concentrated daily ration packets. She would have certainly have to have happened across the medical supplies by now, but she was taking the food.

"Those aren't nearly as good as they look-.", Cruz said, "And trust me, they look _awful-_."

The young woman spun as though she had received an electric shock from behind, clutching the ration packs to her body just below her bosom.

" _Don't tell!- It's for my family-."_ , the young woman explained, edging toward the door like an animal cornered and not quite decided on whether to bolt or fight. Whatever facial features that Cruz had seen the night before and found attractive were lost to a mask of abject and absolute terror, " _Just don't tell._ "

Cruz forgot his hangover, forgot the social mores associated with one night stands, and forgot that the young woman was for all intents and purposes a complete stranger- she was showing all the signs of being in dire distress.

Cruz sat up in bed slowly, suddenly aware that he was only clad in his socks- and one of those was half-rolled down his left foot.

"Just relax-.", he said, making a placating gesture with both hands, "Just calm down and relax- no one's telling anyone anything-. If you tell me what's wrong, maybe I can help."

 _Help? How could he possibly help?_

Cruz couldn't believe the words that had come out of his mouth. Consciously, rationally- he didn't want a thing to do with Salvador Base, or even Brazil for that matter- not even this girl. Still, there were times that required at least the gesture of compassion.

"Don't try.", the girl said as seriously as if she were relaying a mandate from God's mouth to Cruz's ear, "Or when you leave, it will be worse."

The girl had gotten to within an arm's length of the room's door, and the flight instinct of the trapped animal clicked into play. The knob was turned, the door heaved open, and the girl out into the painfully bright sunlight before the inside handle bounced off the room's wall. She had gone so fast, Cruz realized that she had left both shoes behind- lying where they had come off the night before.

Shielding his eyes from the sunlight that was now accompanied by heat that aggravated his hangover, Cruz stumbled toward the door to close it as the last pattering of bare feet on concrete faded away. Sobered, but not totally coherent yet, Cruz found himself hoping that running around barefoot wasn't a regular habit for the girl. After all, he'd had some of those toes in his mouth only hours before.

Cruz had not quite shut the door when a hand arrested its movement on the hinges. A gentle shove and Cruz's allowing of it had the door open again enough for Scooter to poke his head in through the door.

"What was that?", the other pilot asked in a cautious tone.

"A girl.", Cruz said.

"A girl?"

"Yeah", Cruz said covering his eyes from the dagger-like effects of the sunlight, "Y'know, like a guy only with breasts and without the undercarriage."

"I know what a girl is, jerk-off-. –And speaking of which, corral the hog there, Maverick- you're gonna scare the locals.", Scooter said, "I meant why did she leave under full burners? -You weren't doin' _butt things_ to `er, were you?"

Cruz sat heavily on the single bunk that smelled of alcohol and the previous night's activity and covered himself with a pillow. Looking at the shoes, fairly nice women's heels given the general world shortage of manufactured footwear, he replied, "I don't think so- not this morning anyway. Shit- I hope Cinderella isn't expecting me to bring those back to her, `cause they ain't glass and I ain't Prince Charming."

"Hell, Maverick- you're rarely Prince Tactful.", Scooter laughed, "She was cute though. Hope you wrapped up."

"She stole the food."

"What?", Scooter asked, having expected to get some kind of gory detail about Cruz's latest conquest.

"She went into my escape kit and stole the food."

"Maybe you worked an appetite up in her, studly. From the noise coming out of here last night, I'd say you both burned some calories."

" _Who's_ calling _who_ a _jerk-off_?"

Phillips laughed, "Paging Scooter, party of one!"

Cruz put his hands to his pulsing temples and thought aloud, "Who the fuck steals food anyway? I mean, this close to a supply distribution center, who steals food?"

"Maybe the excitement makes it taste better.", Scooter suggested.

"Maybe.", Cruz agreed, "At least she left the drugs. Get me an aspirin, will you?"

In his groggy, first stages of waking, Winters did not immediately recognize the stinging to his left cheek as a slap. A second to his right cheek brought him a little further into consciousness, and by the third to his left cheek again, he realized that words were being directed at him as well.

"…Jack, come on, wake up.."

Another, more forceful slap and Winters was awake as well as well on his way to agitation. In this state, he recognized the voice and presumably the offending hand as belonging to Dalton. Winters' first inclination was to slug his XO in reply, but his limbs were all lead and his body hurt at the very thought of movement.

"Wake up, Jack.", Dalton said, prepared to strike again.

" _I'm awake!_ ", Winters growled, rolling his head to one side in time to miss all but a grazing pass of Dalton's fingers, "How in the hell did you get in here, Freddy?"

Winters wasn't certain, but he was working under the assumption that he was actually in his temporary quarters. He didn't remember being taken to the stockade at any rate, but he had woken up in stockades before without the memory of going there.

"You left the door open, you sot.", Dalton replied.

"Let me rot in peace, for God's sake.", Winters groaned as a cannon barrage was initiated inside of his skull, "Have you no respect for the inebriated?"

"You gotta get up.", Dalton said, his tone serious and bleak, "Wang's dead."

Winters' eyes opened slowly as he lifted his head with considerable effort and considerably more pain. He had to have misheard Dalton in the internal pounding of cannon fire.

"What?"

"Wang's dead.", Dalton said, pulling Winters into a sitting position on the bed, "The ASC MPs called Mumuni, and she told me-. Now I'm telling you."

Winters caught his head in both hands as he was certain that it would roll off his shoulders. The air in the room was hot and sultry despite the rattling of the air conditioning unit and Winters realized that Dalton had meant that he had left the room open to the world and not just the door unlocked. Winters couldn't recall one way or the other. The thought was cut short by a powerful wave of nausea that struck him low in the gut and traveled powerfully upward, cresting and subsiding mid-throat. A close call, but a disaster that would not be averted twice- especially as the taste and smell of bourbon and the previous nights' _hors d'oeuvres_ found their way into his mouth and nostrils.

A thick jet of bourbon and semi-digested bits of finger food sloshed powerfully into the toilet as Winters succeeded in crossing the distance from the bed in three unsteady, sprinting steps.

Dalton, queasy from his own night of overindulging, managed to hold onto the contents of his own stomach only by concentrating on what information he had gotten from Mumuni in their brief exchange, and what he had to now tell Winters.

"Ganyet didn't tell me much, I don't think she knew a lot.", Dalton said, as Winters picked himself up off of his knees by the commode and flushed it, "The MPs apparently found him by the perimeter fence, shot, this morning."

Winters staggered by Dalton toward the small sink in the vanity opposite the bathroom door. He nodded as he wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand before turning the tap on to stream cold water.

"What the hell was he doing out by the perimeter?", Winters asked, splashing cold water across his face and into his mouth to gargle and spit.

Dalton spoke quickly, lest he take a turn at the toilet bowl, "I don't know, Jack. I don't think anyone knows. He was pretty twirked last night- maybe he was just out getting some air, and-."

"And he just walked into a bullet?", Winters asked into the sink as he dumped a handful of water over the back of his neck.

"Sure-.", Dalton said, not sounding convinced, "Maybe. You know what Mathias said about people getting into the base from time to time-."

Winters felt an aftershock grip his stomach, but it subsided before another eruption occurred, " _Mathias says-._ "

"Yeah, well-.", Dalton said before trailing off into nothing- apparently having nothing to say on the matter further.

Winters toweled off his face and neck and turned to the thought of dressing before he realized that he was still dressed as he had been the night before at the post-operation cocktail party. His utility coveralls were slightly twisted for having slept in them drunk, but a tug of the belt to one side and he was semi-presentable again. As Winters looked about for his wheel cap, he spotted his .44 revolver on the bunk's night stand. His hand dropped to the holster at his hip, and of course found it empty- but not finding it there verified in his foggy mind that the pistol he was seeing on the table was his. As he picked it up, slipped it back into the holster and fastened the strap over the grip, he considered for a moment that he was lucky that he had only set the weapon aside in his drunken state and had not decided to use it on some bourbon-rooted hallucination.

Dalton handed Winters his cap and sunglasses which the CO put on as though he was suiting up in armor. The sun was up and climbing higher into the sky, and for Winters' sins of excess it would be merciless in its punishment.

Winters had never been able to abide by the smell of hospitals.

Despite the rigors practiced to keep surfaces spotless and sterile, and the powerful chemicals and cleaning agents used, hospitals to Winters always had the lingering smell of sickness hovering just under the layer of clean. Military hospitals and infirmaries were no better, and perhaps worse because under their top layer of clean smell was not just the aroma of sickness, but also of blood.

The morgues, of which Winters had seen one or two, were the worst. Devoid of the possibility of making the subjects any worse off, the details of cleanliness were more slack and the attention to them less. The smell of death always mingled with the smell of chlorine and clung to the insides of Winters' nostrils like a sneeze that just would not come.

Colonel Ganyet Mumuni and her executive officer, Lt Col. Drake had met Winters and Dalton at the entrance to the infirmary with the MP who had been assigned to escort them. Few words had passed between the officers as the two top Vigilantes were clearly nursing sore heads as well from the previous night. Winters did not remember seeing Mumuni drink much, but he had been absorbed in the act of absorbing himself. Even if he had seen her drinking, Mumuni was one of those who hid it well as Winters had seen several times at The High Desert Pilot's Social Club back outside of Edwards. She would seem fine all night until you blinked, and then seeing her again she was clearly gone.

Wang was clearly gone too.

A quick walk past several patient wards and a cluster of operating theaters had brought the four RDF officers to the infirmary's morgue, within which Major Anthony Wang, RDF, lay like a centerpiece draped under a white sheet on a gurney with shining, stainless steel legs.

Winters had known at the first glimpse of the shrouded body that it was Wang, so the attending physician's drawing back of the sheet from the young officer's face was only a saddening confirmation. The S-3's eyes were closed and somewhat sunken in the way that eyes became as the blood pooled in a body. Winters was grateful for not having to see the man's glazed stare fixing upon him, but the gratitude was muted by Wang's expression. Even in death, the major's face wore an expression of irritation-. No, it was more than irritation, Winters believed distantly in his hung over mind- he had seen irritation yesterday on the tarmac and at the party. This was something more. Contempt perhaps?

"I'm sorry.", the doctor said, "He was dead when we found him- there wasn't even any point in trying to revive him."

"Where'd you find him?", asked Drake through his hand that was cupped over his mouth more in thought than in any attempt to filter out the smells of the morgue.

"By the northern inner perimeter fence, I'm told.", the doctor said, "I wasn't with the medics who answered the call I'm afraid. I was on duty and have been with him since though."

"What did it?", asked Dalton. It was apparently the time for XOs to do the talking.

"A single shot to the chest.", the doctor said drawing back the sheet to reveal the wound, "Through and through. A rifle maybe- something with power."

The ASC MP, a staff sergeant by rank, spoke finally having only greeted the RDF officers at the door to the infirmary with the briefest of salutations.

"We figure he was walking the interior fence and a shooter got him from the tree line outside of the perimeter.", the haggard-looking man said blandly, "Anyway, there's no way of ever being sure. Begging your pardon, Colonels, but you _have got to keep your people away from that perimeter fence_ \- especially at night."

Mumuni spoke for the officers, "We'll remind our people, Sergeant."

Drake reached over Wang's body and drew the sheet back further until the fatal wound was revealed. An entry wound the size of his thumb was punched cleanly into the young man's sternum- but fortunately for the nerves of the RDF officers present, the traces of blood had been cleaned away. Only the deep purple bruising, a patch the size of a coffee cup saucer, and a star-like pattern of charred flesh around the wound remained as peripheral indicators of a violent death. Drake started at the sight of the wound and made an effort to quickly compose himself. The doctor's description of the wound being "through and through", meant that there was an exit wound as well- and probably one not as neat and clean.

Drake had no desire to see it. He had already seen too much on many levels.

"We'll start making arrangements to take him home with some dignity.", Dalton said as Drake covered the young man's face with the sheet again.

"I'm afraid these sort of things are all too common around here.", the doctor apologized, "We don't have much in the way of coffins to provide you- generally body bags are the order of the day."

"We'll figure something out.", Mumuni said, "Where are his personal effects?"

"In storage.", the MP replied, "I'll see that they get to you."

"Thanks.", Mumuni said finally, "I suppose that's it then."

Winters, having not had much to say during the exchange and feeling rather the need to be out of the morgue, had noticed Drake's distraction that had also kept him on the outside of the conversation. The ASC doctor and MP had paid little mind, seeing his expression and dismissing it as grief, or stifled anger, or one of the many other emotional reactions that the loss of an acquaintance evoked. Winters knew Drake better though, not as well as he knew the officers of his squadron, but better than the ASC personnel in the morgue and he saw that besides the grief and the anger, there was something else.

Winters also had the distinct feeling that the _something_ should not be discussed in front of the ASC.

For the heat and humidity that had built noticeably even in the short span of time that the officers had spent in the infirmary, Winters was relieved to be outdoors again. A large part of it was to breathe air that had not been artificially sanitized, but as much or more of it was his curiosity at what was turning in Drake's mind.

As soon as the infirmary doors had closed behind the officers, and when he was certain that there were no nearby ASC ears to listen, Winters seized Drake by the elbow and with a tug, demanded, "Okay then, have it out."

Drake had apparently been as ready to spurt his dark thoughts into words as Winters was anxious to hear them, and that Mumuni and Dalton had been oblivious of as he spilled them with haste.

"Wang was murdered."

Dalton paused in the progress of lighting a cigarette to say dryly, "I believe that was the overall impression that we were supposed to come away with from this."

Drake shot the other XO a glare that could have sliced through a steel I-beam, " _Yeah? No shit, Sherlock-._ I mean he was murdered _not in the way they said._ "

Mumuni's confusion was obvious, and as senior RDF officer, and the one accountable for all the contingent's personnel, she was as clearly determined to gain understanding.

"What do you mean, Dusty?"

Drake thumped his chest with a balled fist at approximately the same location where Wang had received his fatal wound.

"Did you see that hole in him? Shot from the other side of the fence, _my ass_! He had powder burns around the wound- that was done at a meter at most. _Rifle on the other side of the fence line-. Bullshit._ I'm not a doctor, and _I_ can see that. But an ASC doctor and an MP _missing it?- Both of `em?_ No way."

Mumuni nodded, "Okay, fine- I can see your point, Dusty- but who on post would want to kill Wang, and why? I don't see how anyone could possibly benefit."

Winters felt the pounding inside of his skull redouble as any lingering effects of intoxication drained away and were replaced in his veins with ice.

"I do- maybe."

Mumuni's head snapped in Winters' direction, "What are you talking about now?"

Winters took an offered cigarette from Dalton as he worked through the cascading avalanche of thoughts in his head.

"Yesterday Wang was on about getting our flight recorders back from the ASC S-3s. He was particularly ruffled by the fact that he couldn't account for several targets that my section was tasked to-."

A cloud of cigarette smoke was rising from all four officers as they listened to Winters.

"And you think they shot him?", Mumuni asked, "Over flight recorders?"

Winters shook his head, "No, there's more. The details of last night are a little fuzzy, but I got the distinct impression that Mathias was trying to get me into something illicit. He said he needed something transported discretely on a regular basis and told me that there could be a _gratuity_ in it for me."

"And why am I only hearing about this now?", Mumuni asked, the full colonel in her coming out now.

"Because at the time it happened and up until about forty-five seconds ago, I was sloshed off my ass.", Winters explained.

Dalton shook his head, "I'm not getting it, Jack. Mathias is an asshole, sure- and I wouldn't be surprised if he was running something illegal on the side to supplement his combat pay- but how does that get Wang killed?"

"It doesn't.", Winters said bitterly, "Or at least it doesn't add up to anything but paranoid speculation. But you know how Wang is- _was_. Maybe he pushed too hard to get those flight recorders back, or maybe he asked the wrong questions to the wrong people? Hell, maybe he got hold of the one piece that ties all of the oddball shit going on around here together? Maybe that got him killed."

"Maybes don't make it true.", Mumuni pointed out, "And Wang did all of this while strolling around the fence line?"

"Did he?", Drake asked, "We have no idea where they found him. _They say_ they found him along the perimeter fence."

Mumuni waved her hands before her, "Whoa now-. Let's cut back on the conspiracy pills for a little while and work this out logically. Let's get the official report, get our flight recorders back, and let me have a talk with General Braddock and see where we stand-."

"Let's _not_ have a talk with General Braddock, shall we?", Winters suggested, "If things around here aren't on the level, you can bet your pension that he's at least aware of it. Hell, _I'm_ not even sure of what I'm accusing them of."

"Then what do I do?", Mumuni asked, "I'm open to suggestions because on the one hand I've got an officer who's the victim of a chance murder, and on the other hand I've got one murdered because of something bigger- and damn little in between. Well?"

Winters looked at her disparagingly, "Hey, the checks I get are from the RDF, not _Scotland-bloody-Yard_ -."

Dalton interjected himself before a real blow-up could occur.

" _Okay, okay-. Time out!_ Let's think this through for a second-. Colonel Mumuni has to do something, Jack- right? So we can't go around accusing officers of conspiring in murder and God-knows what else without proof. I say we play along for right now. We get our ducks in a row for getting Wang home, and ourselves the hell out of here, but at the same time that we're keeping our heads down we keep our ears up. Can we agree on that?"

Winters nodded. Even if he hadn't agreed with Dalton, he was in no condition to verbally have it out with Mumuni this morning.

"Sure."

Mumuni nodded her consent as well.

Dalton continued, "Let's assume the worst case scenario, and that something bad is going down here and we've been dropped into the middle of it. We sure as hell don't want to poke the hornet's nest while we're standing under it, right? So we keep our ears open, put together the pieces we can, and when we get home we put it together for General Butler and see where he wants to go with it."

Mumuni gave her grudging approval, "Spineless as that sounds, it also sounds like the best idea. You don't go to fight a lion in his own den."

"Or a snake in his hole.", Winters suggested alternatively.

"What about our people?", Drake asked, "What do we tell them?"

Mumuni was swift and absolute in her response, "Nothing for now. We stick with the ASC story and get on with the business of rotating back to NORAMWEST. If we start putting ideas of some kind of conspiracy in their heads, they're going to go sniffing around, being Type As. God forbid that we're right, we're likely to get more people killed. Let's pull out and lick our wounds later. Wang's already too high of a cost for anything we've done here."

Nods of agreement came from all around and it was decided unanimously.

"Hey, there you all are-."

Winters wasn't sure whether his blood was beginning to curdle or boil at the unmistakable sound of Lt Col. Mathias's voice. In either case, his first thought was that nothing would be more satisfying than to draw his revolver and put a .44 slug between the other O-5's eyes. Better judgment prevailed though- barely.

Mathias had approached on the sidewalk leading to the infirmary from the interior of the base, and as he had still been some six or seven meters away when he had first spoken to the RDF officers, they collectively felt no fear that he had been privileged to any portion of their conversation.

"I heard about your major-. Sorry about that.", Mathias said with the depth of tracing paper, "I rushed over to see if I could do anything- y'know, hoping to get to you before you had to see him- but-."

Winters reconsidered shooting Mathias. The transparent bastard had been in such a "rush" to meet the RDF officers that he still smelled strongly of aftershave and had several dots of coffee staining the front of his utility uniform.

"There's not much to do.", Mumuni said, concealing the germinating seed of suspicion toward Mathias that Winters had planted, "We just need to make arrangements for Wang."

Mathias shook his head in an act less convincing of concern than had it been for a favored sports team's loss at a game match, "Shame `bout him- being so young and all. Well, anyway- if there's anything I can do-."

"Actually, there is.", Winters said, surprising himself almost as much as he surprised the officers around him, "I don't want to bring the lad home in a rubber bag to his mother, and the saw-bones in sick bay said you're somewhat scarce of coffins on post. The nearby towns and villages- there has to be someone akin to a carpenter in one of them. I'd like to get out there and get something dignified tacked together for Wang. I feel we owe him that much."

Mathias initially seemed hesitant- a momentary flicker that he extinguished deftly. He then agreed eagerly, a little too far to the other end of the spectrum, "Sure-. Sure, we can do that. There's a guy who made a lot of the tables for General Braddock's house. Fine, quality stuff he does-. I bet he could tackle it. I need to take care of a few things over at the JOC, and then I can draw a rover from the motor pool with a driver and we can head to town. Two, two and a half hours, okay?"

"That'll do.", Winters agreed putting on a false sheen of pleasantry, "Oh, and while you're there- at the JOC, that is- can you see about getting us our flight recorders back. Call it sentimentality, or something, but that was the last thing Wang asked of me when I saw him at the cocktail party, poor chap. I feel obliged."

Mathias nodded his understanding, "Yeah, I can see what you're getting at. Sure, I'll do that for you. You'll have them back before supper, okay?"

"That's reassuring", Winters said, wanting to squeeze a round off into Mathias more than ever, "Thanks."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

Warrior 1st Grade Diharon sat rigidly as the female warrior identified to him only by exchanges between his saviors as Sub-Lieutenant Quek treated the wound to his neck with a gauze pad, pre-treated with an antibiotic liquid. The sting was sharp, but he endured it without flinching. There was something commanding- no, more than commanding- _intimidating_ about the Zentraedi warriors whose company he had fallen into that seemed to demand a warrior's stoicism. For the attitude that they displayed toward him, he was grateful for the medical aide but would have as quickly expected for Quek to cut his throat as treat his wound.

It had become clear within moments of Action Kevtok's band rescuing him from the micronian patrol that they were on this cursed world by choice, unlike Diharon and the millions of others like him. How they had achieved this and why was not as clear- but everything about their conduct smacked of focus and purpose.

The "how" of their presence on the alien world had been answered half a day's relentless march after Diharon's rescue when well into the night, Kevtok's unit brought him to their semi-functional Transport Pod. At first seeing the now permanently earth-bound vessel, Diharon had thought his first impression had been incorrect. While Zentraedi in the micronized state could certainly shelter in one of the transports, there was no way that even a team working in practiced coordination could fly and operate one- it was a matter of physical scale.

As Diharon was brought aboard he realized that not only was he wrong in his second thought, but how wrong he was.

The Transport Pod was unlike any that he had ever seen, including glimpses of the micronian variant of the craft. The vessel that Diharon found himself aboard was not the conveyance for mecha lacking trans-atmospheric capabilities that he'd been acquainted with during his times of Imperial service. What would have been the pod's cargo bay in a standard transport now had a huge, central structure that spanned from the cargo deck to the flight deck. Furthermore, it was clear that this structure was working and living compartments built to a _micronized_ Zentraedi's scale. Running the circumference of the bay Diharon had gotten a glimpse of combat suits anchored in storage mounts to the bulkhead walls as he had been led into the compartment structure. He recognized their shape to be mostly like the _Queadlunn-Rau_ battle suits of the elite, female, Quadrano warriors. Still, these were not- similar, but not. With the moment he had to see the nearest, and only a partial glimpse at that, he sensed that these armor suits were more massive in dimension.

Diharon had seen little within the ship's inner compartments with the exception of the corridors that had brought him to where he now found himself, in the small infirmary. He'd been fed and allowed to clean himself, and was now receiving a med-tech's attention.

Still, there was the impression that those around him cared for his well-being not for his sake, but for something more that they sought.

Yet it was still better than being hunted by the micronians.

Action Commander Kevtok, who had been standing nearby during Diharon's feeding, cleaning, and medical treatment with his arms crossed in a contemplative manner finally spoke.

"Warrior, do you know who we are?"

Diharon shook his head, "No, Lord. You are Zentraedi, but this ship both is and is not. I do not understand."

Kevtok took a step forward, unzipping the front of his utility uniform until he could expose his chest, particularly the ensign of the Te'Dak Tohl laser stenciled into the flesh of his left breast.

A wave of horrid realization swept over Diharon- a near terror that Kevtok knew had been programmed into him the same way as had the hate of the Invid. Kevtok paid little mind to the pitiful display as a warrior nearly his equal in physical size sank to his hands and knees on the deck.

"Forgive me, Lord!", Diharon pleaded, clearly expecting an unspeakable death to be at hand, "We were marooned here! Breetai betrayed us, and we were abandoned here to die! We have struggled to gain the means to return to Service, but-."

"Enough.", Kevtok said firmly, but not cruelly. Lt Moyrt puzzled at this, because the sight of a warrior, even a _norghil_ warrior, groveling had roused the urge in him to kick the spineless beggar. Kevtok had decided on a different approach, which was entirely his prerogative.

"On your feet, Warrior.", Kevtok instructed, closing his uniform again, "Your loyalty to Duty and The Warrior's Code is not in question, and we are not here to punish you. We know that you were betrayed by Breetai, and by The Robotech Masters as well. We have been betrayed as well. We come seeking the means to avenge ourselves, and we require your assistance."

Diharon now stood, but with his head bowed in a subservient display, "Yes, Lord- you have my oath."

Kevtok crossed his arms again and in doing so took on a more imposing appearance.

"Warrior Diharon, our mission is to gather general intelligence as it applies to a larger operation in progress to seize Zor's Battle Fortress from the aliens of this world for service to the Zentraedi. Have you any knowledge of The Battle Fortress?"

"Some, Lord- rumors spoken between warriors. Our goal has been escape-."

"What of The Battle Fortress?", Kevtok interrupted, keeping the warrior on track with his interests.

Diharon complied and said, "Warrior's talk has it that it was destroyed in an act of revenge by Khyron The Back-Stabber, and Azonia. It is said that what is left no longer functions and was buried at its crash site by the micronians far north of here- not even on this land mass. Forgive me, I do not know the exact location."

Kevtok's expression darkened. If the micronians had been able to discover enough of The Battle Fortress's secrets to allow them to repair it after its fall to this world, but then merely buried it following Khyron's final act of reckless stupidity in a life full of such acts- then perhaps this norghil was correct. Perhaps Zor's Battle Fortress was now useless and the bits of information that the Te'Dak Tohl had pieced together were wrong. It was very possible that the Te'Dak Tohl were too late.

Kevtok gathered himself. His mission was not to assess the functionality of The Battle Fortress- but just to gather information that would allow General Krymina to act. He was certainly not going to draw any conclusions on the long-term fate of the Te'Dak Tohl based on the hearsay word of a norghil warrior.

"You spoke of working to escape, Warrior. With whom were you working?"

"Action Commander Yeshta, Lord- I have served him for many seasons now."

An officer- perhaps a more reliable, and certainly a better informed source of intelligence than a warrior. Kevtok saw in this Yeshta, his best option available.

"Do you know where this officer can be found?"

"Yes Lord, he is known to be based in the micronian population center known as Brasilia."

" _Brasilia-._ ", Kevtok repeated, the alien word feeling odd on his tongue, "Warrior Diharon, can you take us to this _Brasilia_?"

 **RDF Intelligence Annex, RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

The administrative and office functions of the Robotech Defense Forces- Defense Air Reconnaissance Office (RDF-DARO) was actually on the third floor of the Intelligence Annex Building, and was the location to visit if one was interested in the day-to-day bureaucracy of that organization's function. CDR Anne Weitzel had little interest in the systemic work flow of the DARO front office though, she was interested however in the data output supported by the work flow- and for that, she had to go to "The Pit".

"The Pit", aptly named as it was a sunless environment containing the computer centers and secure classified information facilities (SCIF) in a sub-basement of the Annex, was most daunting because of armed the guard and card-access elevator one was required to negotiate to reach it. Despite its feeling as such, The Pit was not a hardened bunker facility intended to survive a direct attack- but was intended and designed to thwart any attempts at electronic monitoring of its activities or systemic damage from EMP, mostly by virtue of the depth at which it was buiLt

Once the secure elevator released one onto the main level of The Pit (lower levels, or "The Circles of Hell" contained power back-up and climate control systems needed to maintain The Pit's operations) one would find one's self in the familiar secure office surroundings of carpeted hallways, cube farms, and locked SCIF doors. One had no impression of being buried deep in the ground, with the exception that there were no windows anywhere to be found.

Weitzel swiped her identification badge through the card reader of the DARO Flight Operations SCIF and punched her PIN into the reader's keypad with her forefinger. The lock released and she entered without drawing more than a quick glance from the SCIF supervisor.

The room was lit at roughly half the light intensity of a standard office, but this was to facilitate the easier reading of the four, large monitor screens that occupied the SCIF's far wall. Multifunctional, they could display live video or sensor data feeds from any of the DARO manned or unmanned surveillance aircraft operating anywhere in the world via the RDF InfoLink system. At the moment though, all four screens were in various map modes and showing common operating pictures of varying detail of four different geographic locations.

Manned workstations related to the multiple elements of data gathering, processing, and dissemination occupied most of the SCIF in bleacher-like tiers facing the four screens. To the extreme right of the room, on two level platforms, were the remote pilot control stations from which any DARO UAV could be controlled by manual remote.

Each "Pod" looking much like an enclosed video arcade game (with the exception of having seating for two) functioned in much the same way. Sitting tandem, the pilot at the front of the Pod had the controls of the virtual cockpit complete with master capabilities of the UAV's camera and weapons (if any) systems. In the rear seat, a mission specialist was able to operate the sensory packages loaded for a particular mission.

Only three of the dozen Pods were occupied for direct UAV control as all of the unmanned aircraft in the DARO inventory had the ability to operate autonomously in a limited capacity and spent most of their time doing just that.

"Commander", called Senior Tasking Monitor, Major Agala (RDF), upon seeing the IFD senior analyst, "You grace our humble home with your presence!"

"Major.", Weitzel replied professionally but with a touch of human warmth to the young officer of southern Indian descent, "You've been in this billet too long if you're calling The Pit _home_."

"Well, ma'am, they don't like to let us out much.", Agala said, "On to business though. You're here to check on your bird?"

Weitzel nodded, "I'm not here for the scenery."

Agala motioned for the commander to join him on the first tier where his monitor's workstation was located. As Weitzel was joining him, Agala was busily stabbing commands into his console to call up the link with the Global Hawk II JTUAV that had been tasked to the mission.

"Operation _Ascension_ -.", Maj. Agala said, tapping a finger on the hard copy of the official tasking orders DARO had generated for the IFD's request, "Very transcendental- I like it."

Weitzel shrugged, "It fit with the whole outbound message thing, I think- things rising. It was that or Operation Viagra."

Agala made an amused grunt and said, " _Hmmmm-._ Yeah, better to stay high-brow in case the file doesn't just end up getting flushed."

"That's what I thought."

Agala's console screens filled with current flight data, sensor log information, and a COP map all related to Weitzel's JTUAV.

"There he is."

"He?"

Agala shot Weitzel a harsh look, "Don't be a sexist- not _everything_ needs to be referred to as _she_."

"Point taken, Major- keep talking."

Agala tapped the COP map and quickly explained, "Okay, your bird reached the AO six hours ago-."

"Six hours? The tasking came down yesterday morning, Paul."

" _Nooo_ ma'am", Agala corrected politely, "The _request_ was made yesterday morning. The resource assessment, allocation, and tasking came down last night. You're lucky there was a carrier off of Cuba with an untasked UAV aboard to fill the order."

"Yeah, _one._ ", Weitzel scoffed, "It's good to see how much weight we carry around DARO."

"It's not like that, Commander- we love The Warped Corps!", Agala laughed, "No, seriously- we just have a very full plate right now."

"Who doesn't?"

"Good point.", Agala admitted, "I'm watching out for you though- I've already got my eye on a second bird that will be coming off tasking in seventy-two hours. If I wrangle it right, I may be able to forego the standard turn-around maintenance and get it retasked mid-flight. Maybe."

"Do it and I'll dance at your wedding.", Weitzel promised.

"I'm already married."

"I'll dance at your _next_ wedding then.", Weitzel said.

"Let's not go there.", Agala sighed heavily, "Anyway, _your_ bird is still flying the initial search pattern- about another four hours on that."

"Four hours?"

Agala looked defensive, "I'm good, but not _that_ good. A UAV flies at a certain speed and can cover a certain area in a pass- plus you gave us a _big_ area. It's got to set up a baseline map database through SAR and-."

"Yeah, Paul", Weitzel said impatiently, "I know the process. Did the swabbies load a PDIS package like we requested?"

Agala nodded, "Yeah, it's not the latest generation, but that hardly matters."

"Why not?"

"So much damn bio-ethereal energy down there from all of the Flower of Life plants- you won't get a good image anyway. Plus, I can tell you from just general intel that the area is lousy with dittos anyway and one group on PDIS looks about the same as another."

Weitzel was able to follow Agala's point without much elaboration. The Protoculture Detection/Imaging System (PDIS) operated with the same general principle as thermal imaging, only it detected the unique bio-ethereal energy associated with protoculture, the processed derivative of The Flower of Life, and a key component in the genetic engineering and manufacture of Zentraedi. Use of the system allowed the operator to distinguish at distances between human and Zentraedi when other means failed. Similarly it could detect protoculture fueled craft and mecha that were otherwise concealed from more traditional detection methods.

As Agala had pointed out though, in areas where The Flower of Life was found in even moderate density- the system could become clouded easily. PDIS was a useful tool when used in conjunction with others, but it was far from the "silver bullet" that "non-op" analysts liked to think of it as.

"Don't sweat it, Commander", Agala assured her, "If your bad guys are down there, my little pride and joy will get them."

"It's carrying the signals intercept and electronic surveillance packages then?"

"Those we got a deal on- top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art.", Agala promised, "You know, Commander- you guys upstairs really need to switch to decaf."

"I'll pretend that you didn't say that.", Weitzel said coldly, "Can I use your phone?"

"No 900 numbers."

"Done."

Weitzel pulled the phone receiver out of the cradle in Agala's workstation and dialed a familiar number in a flash. The phone rang once before it was audibly snatched off the cradle on the other end.

"IFD Section Four, Captain Shire."

"You're getting slow on the draw, Gary- it's Anne.", Weitzel said to her subordinate, "I'm down here with Paul-."

"Flight Ops?"

"No, the apostle- _yes_ , Flight Ops. Our bird is on station and will be done laying out its initial pattern by around 1600. Do we have staff in place to catch the data flow and process it?"

"Already working.", Shire said.

"We haven't gotten anything yet, Gary."

"Not from the UAV.", Shire replied in a smug, better-informed-than-you voice, "But you also wanted Big Ears intercepts monitored-."

Weitzel parked her rear on the corner of Agala's workstation though she knew it mildly annoyed him, "We got something?"

"Yes and no.", Shire said, "Got a signal with the same characteristics- priority band, triple encryption, wouldn't register on E.T.&T-."

"Yeah, and?", Weitzel said, her voice clearly excited, "I'm about to pee myself here."

"Not on _my_ desk, you don't.", Agala said, steadily working at some technical element of the flight program that Weitzel was unfamiliar with.

Shire continued after a dramatic pause, "Yeah, well this one was _inbound_. We don't have a monologue, Anne, we've got a _conversation_ going on."

Weitzel really did have to pee now, and it wasn't just the coffee anymore.

"Oh, Ephraim _has got_ to hear this-."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

"I count thirty-seven.", Corporal Inid "Doc" Lancing, 4th Rangers, Echo Company, 3rd Platoon, 2nd Squad, said, "Six of `em, kids, El-Tee."

Every platoon had a medic, and inevitably the handle of "Doc" was hung on them. Doc Lancing was no different in this respect, and like all RDF Army medics, and REF Corpsmen, she had the dual task of providing first-line medical treatment to the soldiers in her assigned unit while at the same time providing a sometimes much-needed olive branch to the often skeptical civilian populations in remote areas in the form of similar service. The large medic's kit she carried contained the drugs, instruments, and implements needed to do everything from treatment of gunshot and laser wounds, to obstetrics, to even some types of veterinary care of domesticated animals- and almost everything in between. What procedures she was unfamiliar with from her extensive training or that were not available on the medic's database she could access through her PICS, she could be talked through by an appropriate specialist via the same system- relaying real-time video to the rear and receiving instruction with visual aide by the same.

The thirty-seven people of whom she spoke were beyond any assistance that she, or anyone barring The Almighty could offer- and as medics sometimes mused sardonically, _He_ didn't make house-calls.

The thirty-seven lay in a shallow, pit grave, mostly face-down, and had been covered when 3rd Platoon had found them by a thin layer of red clay earth. Finding the mass grave had not been difficult, one only had to follow one's nose to the smell of rot that had penetrated into the jungle and had spread an unspoken, unsettled feeling amongst the Rangers.

"I guess it's too much to hope for that they all died of natural causes.", Whilite said to Lancing.

The medic could have just as well not responded- by the time she and three "volunteers" had turned over the fourth body to spill off the earth it was clear that they would not find a "natural" death amongst them. Torsos of some of the dead had been tattered by flechette to the point that Whilite was surprised that they remained "intact". Other bodies had limbs gnawed and burned away; some were missing parts of heads. Of the adult corpses, Whilite found the most disturbing to be those that could be seen to have been shot cleanly through the center body mass with laser weapons. Very professional, as military marksmanship went.

Whilite tried to notice as little as possible about what had put the six smallest bodies into the ground.

Still, gallows humor being marginally better than none at all, she replied, "Yeah, all of `em- they stopped breathing."

"Swell.", Whilite said, grateful as the light wind changed direction just enough to carry some of the stench away.

"Lieutenant.", Staff Sergeant Byerly said, soliciting Whilite's attention, "Sweep's complete, sir. There are a few things you need to see-."

Whilite would have taken almost any excuse to leave the graveside, so he was quick to join Byerly in a purposeful stroll through the flattened encampment. Like Byerly, he found himself carrying his M-35 lowered at the muzzle from the shoulder, but a raise and trigger pull away from the ready instead of slung over his shoulder. Perhaps it was the prevailing feeling of the place and the situation that warranted being on guard, or perhaps that in some way Whilite was hoping that whomever had done such "professional" work on unarmed civilians might want to come back and have a go at it with those capable of putting up a fight.

Byerly stopped next to a heap of shredded plywood and plastic that had once been a makeshift shack the size of a medium-large tool shed. She squatted along the edge of the pile, tracing over some of it with the muzzle of her rifle. Whilite noticed that the debris had many areas where it did not lay as flatly as others, or as some of the shack heaps around it. It had been rummaged through apparently.

"I figure that not everyone who lived here is in that pit, Lieutenant.", Byerly said, "Looks like people came back looking for things- what they could carry easily, I'd guess, and then split. Maybe forty or so-."

Whilite allowed himself to see beyond the wreckage and into its surroundings. There were numerous sets of individual footprints- and Whilite speculated that Byerly, having made survey of the entire camp could have easily accounted for a rough number of forty people scavenging through what remained of their homes.

"Got it.", Whilite said, "Any insight on who did this or why?"

Byerly's expression contorted in disgust as she said, "Yeah, _that_. This way-."

Whilite followed Byerly again, this time over some of the heaps of collapsed shacks toward the rectangular structures that remained intact. The camp opened up somewhat nearer to these structures, and Whilite's ranking sergeant led him into the center of a flat, open area of weed patched red dirt.

She stopped by a footprint in the earth, motioning over its outline with her own toes. The print was well defined in shape and with a distinctive, aggressive tread pattern.

"Field boots, Lieutenant.", Byerly said, voicing the obvious, "Standard issue, Army of the Southern Cross. There's a lot of `em around in this general area- figure near a company's strength- maybe a little less. Over here's how they came in-."

Whilite followed Byerly a dozen paces to where the earth had been indented repeatedly, dozens of times. Each concave depression was of a width and had the tell-tale tread grooves of tires.

"Those are tires on a chopper.", Byerly said, "By the space `tween `em, I'd say Lakota slicks. That's a no-brainer. What I can't figure is this-."

Byerly moved two meters to her right to stand atop another feature pressed into the clay. The pattern was not nearly as deep as the tire indentations of the utility helicopters, and it resembled grids of squares laid over one another repeatedly.

"Cargo nets?", Whilite suggested, "Cargo nets slung under the Lakotas, I'm guessing?"

Byerly nodded, "Sure, that's what I was thinking too."

Whilite ran through the accumulated pieces verbally, "Okay- so, the ASC shoots the hell out of the place, flies in with choppers to drop off assault troops to mop up, and carry off what?"

Byerly nodded toward the rectangular buildings, "Foot traffic says that whatever it was, it was in there. They're empty now, all of `em, and by _empty_ I mean clean as whistle. Look, El-Tee, I've got nothing to base it off of, but I don't think we have to stretch far to figure out what was getting flown out."

Whilite had suspected, but given the growing signs of ASC involvement in the massacre here, he had wanted to find evidence against it. He was finding none though.

"Drugs?"

"Yeah, I think that's a safe bet, sir.", Byerly said, " _Why_ is a better question, but given what we've seen here- the _who_ is fairly clear. Hell, they didn't even try that hard to cover their tracks. Makes you wonder how many times this performance has been repeated."

"I don't want to wonder.", Whilite said honestly, "Get video on everything, and quick. I want to be on the hump in ten minutes, Sergeant."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant."

 **Brasilia**

Not a word had been exchanged between Zentraedi and human since the Army of the Southern Cross party had entered the room.

There had not been any _verbal_ exchange, but the glares from Yeshta on his side of the table, and from the subordinates that Colonel Lowe had elected to bring into the meeting were every bit as fierce and lethal as any full-blown firefight.

With the exception of their first meeting , over two years before now, neither Lowe nor his associates had appeared in ASC uniform, and for obvious reasons. Today, Lowe maintained that tradition with his lieutenants and he dressed well in civilian attire. Even the guards Lowe had brought with him were in non-military attire, though the bulges beneath their coats were unmistakable as weapons. This did not trouble Yeshta, as his own guards behind him made an equally feeble attempt to conceal their arms.

Lowe, late in middle age and hanging, to Yeshta's way of thinking, on the cusp of not physically being able to carry out the kinds of orders he gave on a regular basis and merely having to content himself with giving them, sat without ceremony opposite his Zentraedi counterpart. Unlike Yeshta who had Fral, Sub-Commander Dornian's former lieutenant, to his right- Lowe brought no subordinate to the table.

The ASC Colonel's expression was serious, unapologetic, despite the volatile subjects that would have to be broached at the table.

"Let's just have it out then.", Lowe said bluntly.

There had been a time when Yeshta was still becoming accustomed with the micronian language of _English_ when the meaning of such turns of phrase would have confused him. Yeshta had long since become familiar with the odd language, its quirks, and most of all the relaxed method in which Lowe used it.

"You have violated our agreement.", Yeshta said, keeping a tight lid and seal on the anger he felt boiling within him. Now was not the moment for anything but signs of discontented diplomacy.

"We have maintained control of your labor population in The Control Zone and we have limited what raiding activity that is under my scope of control to facilities and operations that are not critical to the ASC-. _And you do this-._ "

The " _this_ " did not have to be elaborated upon, Lowe knew it and made no attempt to pretend that he did not. The " _this_ " after all, was still smoldering in The Control Zone as result of direct air strikes.

"I have not _violated_ our agreement, Yeshta.", Lowe corrected, "I've only _altered_ it. Had the agreement been _violated_ \- you would know it because all three of the cruisers you are working so hard to repair would have been destroyed, and not just one."

Yeshta fought down the urge to reach across the table and pull Lowe's head free of his puny micronian body, a feat that would not have been exceedingly difficult for the Zentraedi to do given his superior strength. Of course, Lowe's guards would be obliged to respond. The urge would have to be subdued; action was not yet at hand.

Lowe continued, "The simple fact, Yeshta, is that your progress is too rapid. My superiors feel that a setback was needed to keep our need for each other as mutual and equitable. The decision was not at my level."

"I'm certain though that you did everything in your power to persuade your superiors that their course of action was unnecessary.", Yeshta said with blatant incredulity.

"I don't have a say in those matters, and I wasn't asked.", Lowe said, "I am instructed to tell you that barring targets that will be identified for you on which you can consider yourself free to conduct- _reprisals_ \- and save face in the eyes of your men, you should consider your actions carefully. I have been instructed to advise you to adhere to your end of our agreement, and that if you do so, there will be no further attacks on your cruisers or your men."

Yeshta did not attempt to mask his skepticism, "And I have your word on that?"

"You do.", Lowe said, "You also have little alternative, I remind you. You may be providing us with the means of administrating our interests in The Control Zone, but we provide your men with weapons, food, supplies and materials you need to conduct repairs of your vessels, as well as much technical insight that speeds the process along. You stand to lose much more by walking away than we do."

Yeshta grunted in contempt, "And this could not have been conveyed through negotiation? We have no interest in your world, we only want to be free of it. Still, you treat us like a threat."

Lowe placed his hands on the table before him, "We know you want your freedom from Earth, and that's eventually what you will have exactly- and not a moment too soon. Until that moment, you will have to come to grips with the fact that our needs, like our position, are superior to yours. There is no _negotiation_. You'd be wise to remember that. Also, remember that many of your warriors are only loyal to you because they see you standing in opposition to us. If it were to become common knowledge amongst them that you have been working with us all this time- that support might just dissolve under your feet. Do what's best for your cause, Yeshta. Do what's best for everyone. Accept what's happened, make your gestures of revenge to keep your people unified behind you, and carry on."

"I see your point.", Yeshta admitted, "Though there is more to our relationship than you've said, Lowe."

"And that would be?", Lowe asked, allowing Yeshta to speak the pressure out. Insolence was less costly than bloodshed, and Lowe was wise enough to know that even meeting on neutral ground on even footing as it pertained to the armed guards present, bloodshed was not completely out of the realm of possibilities.

"Don't think of me as simple because I didn't foresee your treachery.", Yeshta warned, "And as I am not simple, don't think that I don't see that you have no advantage over me that I do not have equally against you. You use Zentraedi to maintain your _agricultural efforts_ in The Control Zone because you lack the military strength to do so while keeping the truly rogue Zentraedi from overrunning your population centers. And if you think I am frightened by the possibility of my warriors discovering that I've made arrangements with you to secure the supplies needed to rid ourselves of this world, then it is no more fear than you have of the micronian population finding out the same."

Lowe warned sternly, "I think you're starting to walk a dangerous path, Yeshta."

Yeshta replied sharply, "No more dangerous than relying on an agreement with those who cannot be trusted to uphold their end of it. You're gambling that without our agreement, I cannot survive. Have you stopped to consider whether you can? If we are so reliant on you to sustain ourselves, then why did your masters send you so quickly to me?"

"Consider what you're doing carefully, Yeshta.", Lowe warned again, "Open conflict will have dire consequences."

"I will consider my actions very carefully.", Yeshta said, unperturbed, "Tell your masters to consider theirs. You will also go back to them, _messenger_ , and tell them I will have a reply in full in a short time. Let them consider what they have without our agreement in place."

Lowe rose from the table feeling that he had not accomplished all that he had been sent to do. It had been a risk of Operation Back Step, and one that he had truthfully had no say in. Had he been asked, had a recommendation been solicited, he would have advised those from whom he took orders that Yeshta would have reacted in this way.

Realistically, how could he not?

Lowe would have stipulated however that Yeshta, after all was said and done, would have to come to the conclusion that it was in his best interest to allow the blow of Back Step to go unanswered, except for the purely superficial display of striking back at ASC sanctioned targets, of course. This would have been Lowe's input, had his input been sought. Though something had changed in Yeshta, or perhaps it was Lowe's- and his superiors'- miscalculation.

Now Lowe was not so sure, and he would have to report so.

"We'll speak again.", Lowe said, signaling non-verbally to his guards that it was time to leave, "Hopefully on agreeable terms."

"I do hope your masters will take my message seriously, Lowe.", Yeshta said.

Lowe left the room with his guards at a cautious speed. He was greatly concerned, but not panicked- and he did not want to appear panicked to the Zentraedi. Zentraedi were at the core of their being, predators, and to a predator panic smelled of weakness.

Lowe was at the center of his four guards, passing guards posted by Yeshta and picking up more of his own as they made their way out through the back halls of the low-rise office toward the street. As Lowe pondered all that had transpired, his guards were busily at work on their concealed radios arranging to have the motorcade of four armored, but otherwise unmarked civilian land rovers meet them at the street.

"This is not going to go well.", Lowe thought aloud as he reached the lobby and saw his vehicles pulling into place at the curb.

He meant the words in both the senses that his chain was not going to receive well the thought that Yeshta had not just capitulated as they had been certain he would. Moreover, they would not react well to the ambiguous promise Yeshta had made of another "message" in the future. A threat, no doubt- and as such, one that would have to be replied to in kind. Certainly, it benefited no one to escalate the situation.

Lowe realized as he got into the rear seat of his armored rover that whatever was decided, it was going to be his mess to sort out and make happen.

The burdens of duty.

The guard to Lowe's left in the seat beside him was adjusting the sub-machinegun under his coat when the colonel noticed the shattering of the plate glass window at street level in a building across the street. The guard did not react, having not seen it, and did not have time. Lowe had no time to react either, only feeling a shout of warning build in his throat as the shattered window's frame vanished in the puff of white smoke that accompanied the launch of an anti-tank rocket- probably one furnished by the ASC.

Yeshta remained quietly seated as the three powerful, rapid explosions that had sent Fral springing to his feet and sending his chair flying out behind him were followed by a final fourth.

As loose objects in the room stopped rattling and the soft and muffled tinkle of breaking and falling glass subsided from the street side of the building in which the meeting had been held, the inevitable screams of the collaterally wounded and the horrified began to rise and join with one another.

Yeshta stood, gathering himself with tempered haste. It was prudent to leave quickly. If Lowe had supporting units in the area, the chance of escaping them dwindled with every second that the shock of the ambush was allowed to wear off.

Fral's eyes were wide, the comprehension of what this ambush- unknown even as an option to him until this very moment- meant. He knew that there would be no going back, but found himself speaking as though there was hope of some course other than conflict.

"How are we to send messages?"

Yeshta paused before replying, "I believe we just did."

 **Salvador, Brazil**

 _Thank the merciful Lord for air conditioning-._

Winters _was_ actually thankful for the mercy found in the merging of chemical coolants, electrical compressors and coils, and an air circulation system as it applied to the interior of the ASC land rover.

As it was with his head now fully engaged in relentless acts of vengeance against him for the previous night's drinking, Winters was in constant misery. The ride, over unpaved and pot-holed mud roads- though less than four kilometers- had jostled a body constantly that screamed for only sedentary peace and quiet. Had the air in the cab not been maintained at a relatively cool and comfortable level, Winters was sure that he would have already passed into a state of agony.

The appearance of dwellings outside of what loosely passed for the "town" of Salvador- mostly cracked-stucco clad structures that looked as though they could have dated back to Brazil's original Portuguese conquerors- was of some consolation to him. The ride was almost over. Though it would mean entering the heat again, he would not be subjected to the bounce and sway of motorized travel. At the very least, if needs be, he could retreat to a private place to get violently ill. Probably not the lingering image that the RDF-AF would want him to leave with the locals of an officer, but certainly preferable to emptying whatever remained in his stomach on either himself or Dalton who sat to his left.

"You dead yet, Jack?", Mumuni asked from the rear-most bench seat in the rover.

The senior RDF officer and her XO had voluntarily piled into the rear, ceding the seats with the quickest ability to exit the vehicle to Winters and Dalton. A calculated sacrifice of one comfort for another.

"I must not be", Winters replied, "The hurt hasn't stopped yet."

"Can't handle your liquor, eh?", asked Mathias, half-turning in the front passenger seat.

Dalton laughed, though not so loudly as to rouse the demon now quieting down between his own temples, "Oh, he can handle _his_ liquor-. When he gets into mine, and yours, and _yours-._ Then there's trouble."

Mathias laughed as though he had forgotten the purpose for why they were headed into this local speck of civilization, and as though Wang was not being chilled in the ASC morgue like a large, cold-cut party platter.

Winters decided that if it was unavoidable to get sick- he was going to do it on Mathias. In the rover, it would be easy to explain. Outside, more difficuLt Winters would manage it though.

The party had grown with the word of Wang's death spreading through the Vigilantes and the Knight Hawks. The 801st Attack Wing out of Nellis had felt a connection with Wang by virtue of being RDF and sharing a common uniform- though their grief was not as acutely felt as by the fighter squadrons from Edwards. It could be argued that they, in the aftermath of Back Step, had to concentrate on the preparations required to move an entire wing back to its home base of operations. Of course, the Knight Hawks and Vigilantes could have argued the same.

The fighter pilots knew and silently accepted as things requiring acceptance did by custom that to the 801st, Wang was just an unfortunate casualty of war. He had been a face they had seen perhaps a half dozen times prior to and following Back Step, and little more.

The Vigilantes and Knight Hawks, though bearing up with quiet fortitude, could not shake the young S-3's memory off so easily. His had been the humor that had sent them off on many missions and had greeted them with concern upon their return to base. Wang had listened to their stories, taking both professional and personal interest, of patrols of The Outlands. He'd also shown equal interest in stories of girlfriends, wives, and children.

As Dalton might have said in his simple Mid-West American way, he was just a "good guy"- and now he was gone.

The pilots of the two Valkyrie squadrons needed to get off of base for their own good. That had turned a trip requiring a single land rover into one requiring a convoy of ten.

Mathias had griped that the town of Salvador would run for cover with the appearance of such a force, but had relented wisely to Mumuni's reply of silence and harsh looks. She was exceedingly good at that, Winters knew from personal experience.

Whether it was in Mumuni's head, or Winters' thoughts alone- there was a second imperative to get the pilots off of Salvador Base. If he had not been privately and unfoundedly certain of it before, something in Mathias's forced easy-go-lucky attitude made him certain of it now- the ASC was somehow responsible. For his part, Winters wanted his pilots nowhere near ASC personnel, and if the best he could do was to get them (minus four who had remained on post to watch the squadrons' aircraft) into the local toilet of a town- then that was what was best to do.

The application of the rover's brakes caused the vehicle to lurch, which caused Winters' stomach to in turn. Despite the great temptation to do so, he did not spill his stomach contents on Mathias.

"Last stop.", Mathias said, "Everyone pick a buddy to stay with."

Winters wasn't certain how much of Mathias's last comment was jest and how much was serious. Getting out of the rover, Winters realized that Salvador- the town of Salvador- was little more than a cyst of habitation along a glorified mule path in the jungle. The breadth of the town appeared to be little more than a back alley and two rickety structures deep to either side of the "road" that ended flush with the edge of the jungle.

Flies and gnats immediately began to swarm as thick as the humid heat and the smell of mud and dung- some of it probably from domesticated animals. As Winters felt himself being studied from behind doorways that lacked doors and paneless windows, he wondered if maybe staying in the modern confines of Salvador Base would have been as bad or as detrimental as he'd been making it out to himself to be.

"I meant what I said.", Mathias said as though to answer Winters' questions to himself, "You're twenty-five meters from some bad-ass bush- and I don't mean the kind you pay for by the hour. Someone can snatch you real quiet and you'll never be seen again. Don't let your people stray far. I'm going to find this carpenter so we can do business and get the hell home."

"Do that.", Mumuni said as she eased her way out of the rover onto the filth-infused road of drying mud.

Mathias's warning was without need as the pilots who were getting out of their rovers quickly congregated around their commanding officers. There was less to see in the town than they had expected, and what they had expected was little. Also, there was the added discomfort that with the departure of Mathias into one of the back alleys between two squat, mud-brick structures, the town's people began to appear.

At first, there were quick glimpses stolen from inside darkened doorways- mostly by children. When no ASC troops were visible, outside of those behind the wheels of the rovers in the convoy, and when the RDF officers could clearly be seen to carry only holstered sidearms- the emergence began and built upon itself.

"Christ be merciful-.", said Preacher, three paces from Winters, saying enough in the way of a request to avoid the danger of blasphemy.

In several forms the sentiment was repeated, the pilots collectively understood what had prompted Maj. Wayne's plea.

Men, women, and children- all sunken-eyed, and ashen in complexion emerged on legs that were thicker at the knee joints than through any other visible portion of the limb. Open sores of tropical diseases stood untreated for exploration by flies as lips drew back over toothless and swollen gums to murmur in unfamiliar tongues a jumble of meaningless syllables.

" _Jesus Christ-._ ", Mumuni repeated, recoiling slightly from the nearly skeletal hand of a child whose gender was indiscernible as though she was retreating from death itself. Her words were not quite the full request for mercy that Preacher Wayne had made, but Winters knew that it was implied by the speaker if not heard by the Son.

Dalton, to Winters' right simply made a gagging noise that he managed to stifle, though there was no stopping the reflex tears that had already wetted his cheeks.

"Oh, shit- Jack. What the hell is going on around here?"

Winters shook his head. He was nauseous, though for another reason now as the smell of sickness choked him. He had seen starvation before- anyone who had survived the Zentraedi Holocaust had. He had just not seen it so prevalent so recently.

" _Where's all the fucking food?!_ "

Winters heard the voice only distantly through shock-numbed ears. It had been one of the pilots, though he couldn't tell if the speaker had been Knight Hawk or Vigilante. It didn't matter. The question was all that mattered.

"Freddy", Winters said vacantly, "We're, what?- five, six kliks away from a base designated as a supply distribution center-. Where the hell _is_ all the food?"

"This explains it."

Winters was regaining his senses and didn't have to look to recognize Cruz for his voice.

"Explains what, Maverick?"

"The girl, Jack.", Cruz began, then realizing he needed to backtrack a little further, began again, "This girl from the party last night. I woke up and she was raiding my escape kit this morning. Didn't touch the morphine or any of the drugs, just made off like a bandit with the food. This shit didn't happen overnight, or between supply flights, Jack- look around-."

Winters didn't have to look far or wide to see clear signs of long term hardship. Starvation and sickness of this magnitude was achieved over months.

" _What girl?"_ , Dalton asked, going off the main subject, " _Jesus_ , Cruz- your dick's gonna rot right off one of these days, you know that?"

 _"Hey!_ "

The bellow came as loud as a shotgun blast and scattered the civilians encircling the pilots with a similar effect. Retreating on pipe-cleaner legs, many shrank away back into the dark holes of their crumbling homes while the braver of them only removed themselves from the immediate proximity of the RDF officers.

Mathias, the owner of the booming voice, had reappeared unnoticed and was only now lowering his arms from the raised position that gave him the appearance of an animated, thick-bodied scarecrow.

" _Fuckin' beggars, I tell ya-."_ , Mathias muttered with the same level of concern and disgust that one would expect from a man who had just put his new shoe into a fresh coil of dog dirt.

Floored, Winters gawked at Mathias and asked (he wanted to _demand_ , but the appalling site of the locals had taken the wind too much out of his sails for the words to come out as anything more than a question), "Mathias, where's all the food and medicine we escorted in? This place looks like bloody Auschwitz on a crash diet!"

Mathias stopped in his tracks with an expression that half-led Winters to believe he'd then ask- _Who farted?_ \- but instead the ASC lieutenant colonel replied, " _What_ , you thought you were gonna drop off some cans of Spam and granola bars, `n this shit was gonna go away overnight? What the fuck world are you livin' in, Winters?- and will you send me a postcard from there? Our distribution area covers thousands of square kilometers with hundreds of thousands of people living in it- not to mention the dittos we gotta feed. How far do you think two supply drops a month goes? You're in the sticks, bucky- _take it in._ "

Winters realized that he'd been put on his heels more than he'd originally thought, because he found himself retreating from Mathias in this duel. He knew he'd hate himself for it later, but he'd been disarmed.

"Christ, I didn't know."

"Yeah?", Mathias replied- sensing like a raptor an easy kill, "Well, now you know. If you wanna give someone shit, give it to the UE Lower Council, or the RDF chain- `cause I can only hand out what I'm given to hand out."

Winters now felt sheepish- and there was a whole flock around him. As bare bones as Edwards, and Edwards City for that matter, often was- there were at least always meager supplies to be had. This area of the world was beyond bare bones- it was bare, broken bones- absolutely primeval- and Winters felt revulsion with himself that he'd become so insulated from it.

 _Still-._

Winters shook it off. His head was in no condition to do anything as laborious as think.

Mathias thumbed in the direction from which he had come, "So I found the carpenter guy-. Are we getting Wang a box, or do we send him home wrapped like an MRE burrito?"

"Yeah.", Winters managed, then turning to Dalton, said, "Freddy, keep the chaps rounded up. Mumuni and I will handle this-."

"Sure thing, Jack.", Dalton said, lighting a cigarette.

The smell of smoke dampened the stench of starvation and poverty somewhat, and Winters would have killed for a fag. From many causes, he could feel the shakes rampaging through his hands and he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold one though.

More though, he didn't want others to see it.

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

The pool of black water beneath the line crossing of The Tangle looked colder today than it had the day before to Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson as it gaped for him like a toothless mouth three meters beneath his swinging feet.

For the second day now, Andy at the starting end of the horizontal line obstacle, had convinced himself that the ease with which he could crank out thirty pull-ups (under _and_ over-handed, thank you very much) meant that he could speed across the line with upper body strength alone. Much less like Spiderman than a fly caught in a spider's web, he again found himself hanging at the middle of the slack line, the Scottish cold and damp setting into his fingers, and his arms starting to burn from his own weight.

The worst of it all was who stood on the far-side platform.

" _Oh, we're in it again, aren't we Striker?_ ", O'Shae called from the safety of a wood plank platform, " _Don'a learn any faster than ye have ta! I swear by Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph that if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna get ya ta use that dense block on your shoulders ye calls a head!_ "

On the line to Andy's left, Cedric inch-wormed by followed by Cattermole to his right a moment later.

O'Shae hooted with sadistic glee, " _Oh, fer God's sake boy-o! What kinda shadow are ye? Beckham's got the right idea! Hell, AUNT MOGGIE's got the right idea, `n he's a daft cunt! So, are ye gonna crawl or swim, boy-o? Ole O'Shae'll be waitin' here dry as a camel's cunny in either case!_ "

Andy gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the line from which he was hanging. He could feel the burn of the hemp sinking into his skin, but was determined that unless his fingers tore free at the knuckles, he _was not letting go_.

Getting his feet into a sway was not difficult- they were already in motion. With his body like a pendulum, he exerted effort at the extreme end of each swing, getting his legs higher with successive efforts. As his oblique abdominal muscles began to burn, he could almost get his boot over the line. As they felt as though they would tear and that he'd end up swimming again in front of the platoon, Andy hooked first his left boot over the line and then his right over the left.

" _Good, lad!_ ", O'Shae called.

Encouragement again- Andy nearly lost his grip.

 _"Now worm it over!"_

 _Lift, push, pull._

Andy moved half a meter up the line.

 _Lift, push, pull._

A half meter closer.

 _Lift, push, pull._

A half meter closer- and the platform was almost in reach.

 _Lift, push, pull- and swing your legs out-._

Solid footing had never felt so good to Andy as it did at that moment.

"Now there's a lad!", O'Shae said, hastening Andy on with a pat to the back and a gentle boot to the rump, "Now get on, ye got a schedule ta keep!"

Four minutes, thirty seconds.

The previous day, during the formal introduction between Training Platoon 6045 and "The Tangle"- made with much pomp and circumstance by O'Shae- this had been the time identified as the maximum time allowable to negotiate the course.

Andy had completed the final fifteen meters, a tire run of double-stacked rover tire treads that forced even the taller recruits to bring their knees up to nearly mid-chest as they hobbled along, at five minutes nineteen seconds. The line crawl had cost him precious time that he had not been able to make up- it had just taken too much out of him. Fortunately, Andy did not have the distinction of coming across the line last- or even in the last ten.

Recruit Trainee Pamela Dunn had been in the final ten, much to her misfortune. The shame of arriving to the end of the course so late in the exercise was not foremost on her mind though as she was soaked and soiled from first a spill into the mud from the ascending, horizonntal logs, and then from slipping from the rope line into the pool that had nearly had Andy. Andy was sure that he knew how it had happened to her. Slipping from the parallel ascending logs was easy with the heavy morning dew. Once in the mud, or more specifically, out of it- there was no escaping the chill. Dunn was by no definition, "frail", but being slighter of build Andy was sure that the cold had numbed her more quickly than it would have he, and had contributed to her fall to the pool.

So he speculated.

O'Shae had been very forgiving for the poor time showing though. Training Platoon 6045 had only been made to run ten laps of the course for failing to make time. By the fifth lap, the sun was high enough that the morning dew and haze were beginning to burn away, so for Andy- the run wasn't so bad. For Andy.

By 1030hrs, as the platoon settled in within a lecture hall for classroom instruction following cool-down calisthenics- Pamela Dunn was shivering violently in the chair next to Andy that she had happened into. As the lights were dimmed and then extinguished for a video on military command and control structure, Dunn's teeth were chattering as to sound like a Morse key on the striker pad.

No sooner had the lights gone out than Dunn's shoulder pressed into Andy's, creating a cold, damp connection between them, even through the drier sweatshirt top that Andy wore.

"Cold?", Andy whispered. The training sergeant supervising the lecture hall was across the room and down at floor level. With three rows times ten seats between them, Andy was certain that the sergeant would not hear him.

 _But, cold? What the hell kind of stupid question was that? Of course she's bloody cold._

"No, love- I was going to ask you to crack the window-.", Dunn stuttered in the dark, " _Of course I'm cold!"_

"Well, you're going to shake that bloody seat apart.", Andy replied.

"Only another eight hours to the day- I _may_ survive yet."

From the moment Andy had posed the first, stupid question, he had known what he had wanted to do-. This was the moment to act or come across as a complete wank.

"Here-.", Andy said, shimmying his sweatshirt up to his armpits, and then with great care slipping first his arms and then his head out of the garment. He pressed the mostly dry shirt into Dunn's lap.

Dunn's voice was terrified, though still hinted strongly that she wanted to take him up on the offer, " _Put that on, or O'Shae'll skin us both!_ "

"You put it on, or you'll come out of your own skin like a garden snake."

"I'm wearing a sweatshirt already."

"Take it off."

"How?"

" _Don't they teach you girls these bloody things at summer camp? Like I did."_

Dunn's arms vanished out of her sleeves as she said quietly, "That's our braziers we learn to get out of at summer camp."

" _Whatever."_ , Andy said as Dunn's sweatshirt came off to give him a quick glimpse of perked nipples under a damp cotton T-shirt by the flickering light of the holographic viewscreen at the front of the room.

"I think you just wanted to get me out of my clothes.", Dunn said as her head appeared through the neck hole of Andy's sweatshirt, followed by her arms through the sleeves. Her shivers quickly subsided to minor tremors.

"Don't flatter yourself.", Andy replied, admitting only to himself that she wasn't far off the mark.

Pamela's hand found his in the dark and gave it a quick squeeze, "Glad you liked the show. Thanks."

Andy let the conversation die. No need to press his luck.

 _Damn hormones._

 **The Amazon River Basin**

"-And that would be this area in here, sir.", Sergeant Major MacDonald said squatting next to Captain Nguyen in the Echo Company command post. The ranking NCO indicated an area on the ruggedized C2 laptop's COP map to which a recent intel dispatch had referred. Sorted out of hundreds of such dispatches issued at the theater level by Nguyen's customized commander's "watch board" application, the same dispatch had been forwarded to him by the 4th Rangers operational staff as its subject had the potential to have a direct impact on Nguyen's mission.

An impromptu Army of the Southern Cross operation, under the provisions of the Joint Operational Initiative: Gemini, and with RDF-AF support had conducted the day before a crushingly successful strike on a Zentraedi cruiser under repair and its supporting rogue Zentraedi facilities deep within The Control Zone. This was of obvious interest to Nguyen, whose Echo Company was also "deep" within The Control Zone- so much so that Nguyen was of the belief that it had been the ASC operation in question that had overflown his 3rd Platoon the previous morning.

The dispatch from RDF-Army Intelligence was concise. The strike was expected to produce aftershocks throughout the entire Control Zone- elevated levels of rogue Zentraedi hostility against military posts and civilian habitations alike. The dispatch had made vague hints that Zentraedi retaliations may have already begun- though this was unconfirmed speculation. Regardless, what the dispatch expressed explicitly was that within the area of The Control Zone that was also Echo Company's AO, that elevated levels of Zentraedi and therefore, as to counter it, ASC activity were to be expected.

So died the hopes of a "routine" execution of a covert LRRP/SOG operation.

"Operational plan still has us pinwheeling counterclockwise through this sector today, sir.", MacDonald continued, spelling out the implications of the dispatch to his superior as they pertained to Echo Company. It was a formality really, as Nguyen knew well the implications having as many years of operational experience in The Control Zone as MacDonald, and most of them with him. Still, open communications led to open minds as Nguyen was fond of saying, and the two seasoned Rangers had never failed to benefit from open discussion.

"We've got 1st Platoon to the southwest of the red zone, here- and they'll be opening the distance with it further southwest. Not so much luck for the 3rd, though. They'll be bumping the line all day today and tomorrow- if we don't divert them"

Nguyen nodded, saying quietly with some concern, "Our new second lieutenant's platoon. What's your feeling on this, Mac?"

MacDonald's response was quick, but thoughtful, "He's a Ranger, and an officer, Captain. Not everyone gets the luxury of easing into the job of command. I got some time with him back at Conrad though- he seems steady enough. Besides, he's got Byerly to keep him pointed in the right direction."

Nguyen nodded, his confidence in the 3rd Platoon's ranking NCO well-established, "Good sergeants make the difference."

"Sergeants make the Army happen, sir.", MacDonald said, not ashamed to show moderated pride in the Army NCO corps.

"We will still be certain to express a need for caution to Lieutenant Whilite when he checks in.", Nguyen decided, "I would also like you to get on the God phone with Regiment and make sure that provisions are made for air support and emergency extraction of our northern units if it should become necessary. Establish logical extraction points at, shall we say- six kilometer intervals?- along their projected paths."

"Yes sir.", MacDonald said, "They'll squawk over it, but I'll pull some strings and get our people covered."

Nguyen nodded his approval, "Good man, Mac. There is also the possibility we have not discussed. We could order 1st Platoon to redirect northeast and conduct 3rd Platoon's sweep from the opposite direction-. 3rd Platoon could make a hard march south across their right flank and fill the gap for the 1st-. My inclination is to say, no- but I would like to hear yours."

"Yours is mine, Captain.", MacDonald said, "Whilite just drew the short straw today. You don't get hard if you don't learn to muscle through. That, and with the AO likely to be destabilizing- hell, it's likely to cause as many problems as it could potentially avoid. I say keep `em all on assigned task, sir."

"I agree.", Nguyen said, "Go and contact Regiment before we start to receive mid-day reports."

"Yes sir.", MacDonald complied.

Nguyen closed partially the screen of the C2 laptop less to conserve power (enough power cells had been packed to power Manhattan, almost) or prevent eyes from seeing what the screen held than to provide a mental buffer to the commander. Taking care of one's self was at least as important as taking care of one's unit, so training had instructed.

In this mindset, Nguyen retrieved from his nearby rucksack an MRE pack which he deftly sliced open with a pocket knife to sort through the contents. Once, in a film he had seen a character open a pack with his teeth. Bad production quality for whichever studio-. A common joke, and probably not one that was completely unfounded was that the outer plastic wrapping of the MRE pack could be layered under body armor to supplement the protection offered. Opening an MRE with one's teeth was at best ill-advised.

The entrée packs (in this case, "Beef Enchiladas with Sauce") were somewhat easier to open, having an "easy tear" tab that sometimes was. Some in military service argued that even with an easier means of access, the contents of the entrée pack were not worth the effort. Nguyen found most of the 100-plus varieties of entrees to be palatable if not good. In any case, the captain often thought that those who shot off their mouths at the quality of the food would have been wise to consider the millions in the world who would give much to experience the culinary displeasures of MREs.

Eating at the moment was merely an act of self-maintenance. He had eaten last at just after 0400, and once mid-day sit-reps began to come in there would not be time again until much later. Now was Nguyen's window of opportunity.

Much more important, and what Nguyen had actually been looking forward to with this window of opportunity was the opening of an envelope that had come to him just before Echo Company had set out on LRRP/SOG.

Penned in familiar script on the envelope, Nguyen did not even have to read the name on the reverse side to know it was from his eldest son, Khoa, who had just received his first billet as a second lieutenant with the RDF Army Corps of Engineers.

While email was certainly a speedier form of communication, Nguyen had ingrained the greater sentimental value he felt toward the penned word in all four of his children. The price paid from time to time was that he had to wait for letters to traverse the reviving UE Postal Service to reach him. Still, there was something special about opening an envelope and reading a letter handwritten in Khoa's carefully penned Vietnamese characters.

 _Dear Father-_

 _It is my great joy and privilege to write to you on the occasion of my arrival at Fort Roosevelt, north of the Panama Canal Zone. As you have often told me, the military moves quickly when needs demand. I flatter myself to think that the needs of the military demanded me to receive orders to join the 72_ _nd_ _Heavy Construction Battalion here at Fort RooseveLt There is little else to explain how within the span of twenty-four hours I could go from having only my commission and engineer certification in hand to actually reporting to post here in Central America._

 _As you know, no doubt, the Corps of Engineers is at work on no less than twelve major projects to not only repair and expand upon the Panama Canal, but to construct RDF base facilities in the region to support and defend the canal project. I cannot help but feel personally linked to this work as I believe that construction of these facilities and restoration of commercial and military shipping traffic through the Panama Canal will in some way support the activities of you and your men in the field._

 _I have sent a letter also to my mother and siblings, allowing them to know that I have arrived safely and am working with a competent and proactive unit. I will continue to write them, as I do you, in hopes that my constant communication will in some way assuage Mother's sense of separation from you as you are not always as free to communicate. I did have occasion to speak to Mother shortly before my departure and she expressed both that she was proud of us despite our absence, and that she understood the importance of what we both were involved in. Confidentially, I know that she would prefer to have us both closer to home- but as always she dignifies herself in self-denial of her desires and the voicing of them for our benefit and the benefit of others. I am sure you are well familiar with this trait of my mother, but I write of it because this is the first time I have experienced it from a perspective that you must know all too well._

 _As of yet, I have only had the briefest of opportunities to meet my unit, but they strike me as hard-working and dedicated. I am certain that we will do well together. We have not yet received an assignment, but I understand that one will be coming soon. Given the nature of the unit and the background of my engineer's training, I suspect but cannot speak to the likelihood of being assigned to the construction of the new canal lock system. I have great hopes and enthusiasm for this work though and will let you know what I can when I know._

 _Father, I will ask you to please forgive me the brevity of this letter as I am writing it before our commanding officer's 1500 staff meeting. I will write more later in hopes of giving you more news._

 _I pass on the love of your Wife and my Mother, and that of your three children- my siblings, as well as myself. May our ancestors watch over you and your Rangers and give you safe passage._

 _Your loving son, as ever._

 _Khoa_

Captain Duc Ho Nguyen smiled briefly to himself, remembering his first command as a second lieutenant with pride and knowing the feeling his eldest son was experiencing. He also mused briefly, knowing that for whatever reason the Corps of Engineers was a faster track of promotion than Special Forces, that one day in the not-too-distant future he might find himself saluting his own son. That was fine though.

Nguyen was glad to have read that Khoa had already written his mother who had vehemently opposed his entry into the Service, though her protests were more felt in their silent intensity than heard. Khoa's correspondence would do much to ease her worries, especially if he focused on the relatively safe and secure nature of the Panama Canal Zone- and on the non-combat related duties he was involved in there.

Nguyen vividly remembered his wife's joy at Khoa's proclamation that his goal in life was to be an engineer, followed by the distress and despair a week later when he further asserted that he would first like to enter the profession as a member of the Corps of Engineers. Fa, the loving and dedicated mother of his four children, had always been accepting of Duc's military career- though _accepting_ never went quite as far as _understanding_. Nguyen suspected that she saw all uniforms as being the same, and as such expected Khoa's receipt of an officer's commission as meaning the same as the life his career had forced him to live- particularly frequent periods of sparse communication.

Hopefully Khoa's letters would soon let her see that the situation with her son would be different than with her husband. Duc knew that she had already sacrificed much for him- she did not need to be asked to give more.

A Ranger's life asked a lot of the entire family. Nguyen reflected on this as he folded his son's letter, returned it to its envelope, and slipped it into a shirt pocket to read again later. His quiet moment was nearly at an end, and soon he would be dealing with the responsibilities of command again.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

"Ganyet, Nigel-.", Major General Butler said via secure com-link to the two ranking Valkyrie pilots deployed to Salvador, "-I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear about Wang. He's going to be missed in Operations here, I can assure you."

Unimpressed, Winters replied bitterly, "Well, send that to Hallmark for printing and let's get a copy to his mother."

Mumuni jabbed Winters sharply in the thigh with a finger below the line of sight provided to Butler by the CT-1's communication suite camera. Winters took the not-so-subtle hint and allowed Mumuni to do the talking for the forward-deployed units, as was proper given her superior rank.

"Thank you, sir.", Mumuni said, "Though we have to report to you that we feel the circumstances of Major Wang's death are- _suspicious_."

"Suspicious?", repeated Butler, "How do you mean, _suspicious_?"

"Suspicious meaning that the clear, visible evidence that Jack and I have seen don't support the story that the ASC is trying to feed us.", Mumuni said trying to sound unbiased, "That, and there are other things."

"Such as?"

"Jack-.", Mumuni said, prompting Winters to field the response to that question.

Winters was quick to speak, "He wasn't specific, but one of General Braddock's men was feeling me out to see if I'd be agreeable to seeing something shuttled back home. The _something_ in question was to be handled discretely, but that's all I got out of him before I put the kibosh on the idea. –Oh, with the exception that there was a lot of money in it for me if I played along. Draw what conclusions you like from that."

Butler ran a thumb across the deep, fret-spawned wrinkles in his brow, saying exasperated, " _I really need this right now._ "

"Does that mean we can come home now?", Winters asked.

Butler shook his head, "No, this means that you had better circle the wagons where you are. Operation Back Step has really stirred up the entire region. I've been on the phone with General Hume three times this morning, and he's telling me to brace you for the possibility- the _real_ possibility- of extending your deployment at Salvador."

Winters retreated back from the console as though he'd seen a snake crawling from it, "You're having us on, right?"

Butler shook his head, "No, I'm not. It gets better too. We could be deploying most of the Wing from Edwards _and_ the Wing from China Lake. The Navy is moving three carriers into the area, and availability inquiries are going out as far as Incirlik to see what additional Air Force units can be pulled into The Control Zone."

Mumuni was rubbing her own head now lamenting, Winters believed, the part she had played in bringing them to where they were now, "Good God, is it that bad?"

"Not yet, but the best minds are working on it.", Butler said, "Case in point- UENN went to ASC PR for a comment on the escalating violence in the region, and they didn't get a response to their call. The only thing scarier than hearing the ASC discuss violence in The Control Zone- which generally adds up to _meet force with force_ \- is to not hear them talking at all."

"So, we're in the fertilizer then?", Winters asked.

"To your necks.", Butler said.

"Even if they killed Wang?", Mumuni asked bleakly.

Butler's expression darkened, "Do you know that they did?"

"No, but we have our suspicions.", Mumuni replied.

Butler's expression showed no signs of lightening as he asked, "Is there more that I'm not hearing from you? If there is, you'd better spill it now or I'm making the transfer there _permanent_."

Winters, always the believer in karmic entropy, answered as directly as he could by the facts he had available.

"It may be related to Wang, and it may not, but during the combat sortie my flight hit some targets that were not identified in any of the operational briefings- and to boot they just didn't feel right. We also had our data recorder discs confiscated as soon as we were wheels down, and we haven't seen them since. Wang was very on edge about it last night, the last time any of us saw him alive. There are just a lot of odd things going on around here that we can't account for."

Butler's expression now changed to something akin to being coldly indifferent- though Winters knew him well enough to see through that mask that he was likely wearing to compel his subordinates into distasteful but necessary action.

"Here it is, you two.", Butler said firmly, "The whole ball of yarn is beginning to unravel around you down there. SOUTHCOM is screaming to have _everything_ including the Polish cavalry rushed in to help stabilize the region, and the other COCOMs are scrambling to make it happen. There's going to be no getting you out of there in the near future, and even if we had jurisdiction to do so, there'd be no time or resources to deploy and support a CIS unit to investigate your allegations. In short, Colonels, for the foreseeable future, it's _your_ bed- you'd better decide how much you want to crap in it."

"What about Wang?", Winters asked.

"Nothing to be done right now.", Butler said, "I promise, we'll follow up later as much as we can, but for now, I'd concentrate on the people you have who are still alive. Wang will still be dead later, I assure you. I wish I had a better answer for you, but I don't. Suck it up and keep your people moving forward. If I can get you moved to an RDF base, I'll do my best to make it happen- but assume that you're going to be right there for a while. In the meantime, I've got teleconference with Lieutenant General Hume and Major General Norris from China Lake to discuss our support capabilities. I'll contact you again at 1800, your time to let you know what direction things are going in. Until then, try to stay out of trouble. Butler out."

The screen darkened for a moment and then was replaced by a field of blue with the NORAMWEST seal at the center.

Winters looked to Mumuni, "You know, we really need to stop using this phone box- this circuit only seems to carry bad news."

"Play nice, Jack.", Mumuni said gravely.

"I _always_ play nice.", Winters said with a fraction of the sincerity that Mumuni was looking for in his response.

Her next words were sharper, expressing explicitly that she was not speaking as Ganyet Mumuni, friend, but as _Colonel_ Ganyet Mumuni, superior officer.

"I'm serious, Jack- the shots you're swapping with Mathias, they end _now_. I don't want your people or mine interacting with the ASC any more than is operationally necessary, and that includes the pissing contest that you've got going with that jerk. If we're stuck here, we'll go to briefings, fly missions, give our input if we're asked, and if we're talked to, answer _yes sir_ and _no sir_. I want no more ripples in the water."

Winters gaped at Mumuni, not recognizing where the surrender was coming from in a woman who normally would stand toe to toe with anyone on any issue, and usually prevail.

" _Ripples in the water?_ Ganyet, Wang is dead, is that a _ripple_ in the bloody water?"

"Wang is dead, and that's a real shame.", Mumuni said bluntly, "So, what are you going to do- play Scotland Yard when you're not dropping bombs? And let's say you do find a smoking gun- what then? What are you going to do about it? Are you going to march into Braddock's office and tell him that you know some of his people are murderers before you roll in to the rack he's providing you to sleep? Is that the plan, Jack?"

Winters shook his head in disgust, "When did you lose your spine?"

Mumuni shot back, "When did you lose what was at the top of yours?"

" _Fine-_ it's your call, _Colonel._ "

Mumuni stood suddenly, an intimidating sight despite her diminutive size, " _Goddamn right, it's my call, Lieutenant Colonel Winters! Don't forget it!"_

Mumuni opened the door at the rear of the CT-1's cockpit to leave and found both squadron XOs standing on the other side, saucer-eyed like children hearing their parents fight for the first time.

The walk, practically a _climb_ , down the crew ladder of the CT-1 was the second for Winters and Dalton and with a familiar, though more acute emotional heaviness associated with it. Neither Dalton nor Drake had needed to ask their respective commanding officers what the outcome of the com-link discussion with General Butler had been- the sum had been readily clear on the two officers' faces. Furthermore, both Mumuni and Winters had the expressions and the non-verbals that said to their XOs that it was best to allow them a few moments to depressurize before attempting any kind of meaningful communication.

The tense silence while descending the switchback series of ladders from the CT-1's flight deck made Dalton wish that the frenzied unloading activities that had made the first trip, several days before, so distracting were still ongoing. The unloading was long since completed though, and the cavernous cargo bay of the transport only served now to echo the sound of boots on aluminum steps as the pilots descended. Dalton at least had the good sense to hand forward his pack of cigarettes to Winters (per usual, Winters had none of his own) which the CO took in silence before handing the pack forward to Mumuni who similarly accepted it. It was good to see a gesture of peace offered and accepted from Dalton's point of view- though tempting as it was to pose the burning questions, he knew it was better to let the two speak of their own accord.

"So, Freddy-.", Winters said as the reached the cargo deck second to Mumuni, "How would you like an extended holiday here in sunny Brazil?"

Dalton received his pack of cigarettes, light two, from Mumuni whose facial expression only confirmed that Winters' question wasn't a feeble attempt at bad humor.

" _Oh, you're shittin' me-!_ ", Dalton spat.

Mumuni was grateful that someone had the abandon to speak what she was feeling, "You're his favorite turd- he wouldn't shit you."

Mumuni's favorite, signature response to that particular turn of phrase wasn't enough to offset the weight of Winters' message.

Drake asked, "How long are we here?"

Mumuni shook her head, "Can't say, don't know."

"Assume a while.", Winters said, "Something about Operation Back Step upsetting the natives or something. Raise your hand if you didn't see that one coming."

"But _here?_ ", Mumuni's XO, Drake asked, "I know you told Arnie about Wang-."

"He may be able to get us posted to an RDF base.", Mumuni offered unconvincingly, "But for the time being we've traded desert views for tropical vegetation, and Arnie made it clear that that was that."

"Yeah?", Drake replied, "Well, consider this my official protest to my superior that I feel that this posting is an unduly hazardous one for the RDF personnel under your command, Colonel."

"Noted.", Mumuni said, embracing for a moment the formality and then dispensing with it, "And it won't mean a damn thing if I pass it up the chain because stabilizing this area of The Control Zone is priority one, superseding all others. For what its worth though, General Butler agreed that a lot of things going on around here didn't seem on the level."

"And he advised us to-?", Dalton asked.

"Keep our heads low, do our jobs, and get the bloody hell out as quickly as we could.", Winters said, "Wang and the inquiries about him, if there are any, will have to wait."

Dalton lit a cigarette for himself, " _Christ-_ they're gonna just bury that kid when they bury him."

"I want to tear some new ones too.", Winters admitted, "It's going to have to wait though."

"Listen to Jack.", Mumuni advised both executive officers, neither of whom appeared to be buying into the course of action being set for them, "For once he's being reasonable. We need to keep our people focused, and we need to do our jobs or we may be buying more wooden boxes to send home. I don't want that, and neither do you."

"Of course not.", Dalton agreed, "It's just that- _aw shit! Think of the Devil and he shall appear-._ "

The meaning of Dalton's last statement was not lost for long on the other pilots.

Lt Col. Mathias reached the top of the CT-1's cargo loading ramp under the close supervision of Maj. Goodson, its pilot. Goodson had not been privileged to the fighter pilots' suspicions about all things related to Mathias, though the unusually high level of interest that the ASC had shown his flight of transports had been enough to warrant elevated concern in him of anyone in that uniform. The plastic crate Mathias carried probably did not do much to ease those concerns- though having had several discussions on the subject with Mathias, Winters suspected strongly what the crate contained.

"I've got your recorder discs.", Mathias said simply and without apology, as though returning a garden hose to its owner a day late, "No harm, no foul, eh?"

Dalton accepted the crate from Mathias hastily, but not rudely- eager as Faust may have been had the opportunity come to get back from Mephistopheles what he'd lost in their dealings.

"I guess you've heard then?", Mathias said, reading the tension in the pilots.

"A few follow-on sorties", Winters said, playing to be unperturbed and not succeeding, "I suspect the chaps will appreciate the trigger time."

"Better to mend some cracks in the dike than deal with a flood.", Mathias consoled, sounding equally concerned as Winters had unperturbed, "Anyways-. Got those back as soon as I could for you. Figured you'd need `em."

Winters allowed the obvious to slide that numerous requests for the discs had been made to deaf or indifferent ears- not the least of which by Wang.

 _Wang._

Winters felt his blood beginning to heat again, but found himself in better control than he could have managed hours before.

Dalton on the other hand was not afraid to probe the closing wound, "So we know what to tell the S-3 staff, how many of these did Wang get through?"

"What?", Mathias asked, caught off-guard by the question.

"Did Wang have a chance to review any of these?", Dalton asked more directly, "Our AAR is already well overdue- if we can give our S-3s any leg-up in getting their reports in order, we should. Did Wang review any of these at the JOC?"

Mathias shook his head, "Don't see how he could have. He was last in the JOC right after we returned from Back Step- the discs were collected on the flight line by our staff-. I think your people are just going to have to start from scratch, sorry."

Dalton adjusted the moderate weight of the crate in his arms, causing the cartridges to rattle against one another, "Yep, I'm sure you are."

"Down, Freddy.", Winters said, surprising himself- by God, Mumuni was actually right- for once he was being the voice of reason.

Mathias let the comment go.

"If you need anything-."

"You'll be the first to hear.", Mumuni assured him, sounding somewhat more sincere than Dalton may have had he given the response.

Mathias gazed around the empty cargo bay of the CT-1 and shook his head, "Well, at any rate- these birds'll be flying home soon. Looks like we're going to need the tarmac space for ships with teeth. That's the way it looks. Seems a shame to send `em home empty, eh Winters? A real waste."

Winters, not too hung over to clearly get the drift of what Mathias was implying, responded, "Well, if you'd like to make a formal transport request- I'm sure Goodson could point you in the direction of the correct channels."

"Naw, just talkin'.", Mathias said, "I guess once they're gone though, you'll be discovering all of the amenities of Salvador."

"How's that?", asked Mumuni.

"Phones for one.", Mathias laughed, "We do have secure lines you can use to call home. You come running over here every time you need to contact your chain. We're going to end up thinking that you don't trust us or something."

"Why run up your bill?", Winters asked, keenly aware that Mathias was sniffing them out. Whether Mumuni was conscious of it, Winters wasn't sure, but for himself he had no doubt.

"Good point.", Mathias allowed. He was backing off now, and Winters was ready to let him go.

"Like I said-."

"Anything we need, got it.", Mumuni said, completing the thought.

Mathias scuttled back down the ramp in his burly man's gait and disappeared out of the sight of the pilots inside of the cargo bay- though Maj. Goodson continued to watch him for some time from the foot of the ramp.

"Any question now?", Winters asked of Mathias in general.

"Oh, he's a _rat_ \- at least.", Drake said, "Jesus, do we really have to fly with that guy again?"

"Just watch your six.", Dalton advised, answering the question in a round-about way. He shook the box of disc cartridges, causing them to rattle, "And speaking of _watching_ -."

"I'm right there with you, Freddy.", Winters agreed, "And I want you to see too, Ganyet-. Have a look at these _targets of opportunity_ and tell me that I'm not the only one that is seeing something not quite kosher."

Mumuni looked back at the ladders they had just descended, following them with her gaze all the way back up to the transport's flight deck.

"Up there?"

Winters laughed, understanding what she meant and not relishing the thought of a second climb in one day, "No- I suppose not. We'll come up with a Plan B with fewer stairs"

"Forward thinking, Colonel Winters."

"Thank you, Colonel Mumuni."

 **RDF Intelligence Annex, RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

CDR Weitzel knocked twice sharply on the IFD Division Chief's office door as she leaned in. As usual, Colonel Shioah was awash with preoccupation in the task on the computer screen before him and would not have known of Weitzel's presence had it not been for the rap of her knuckles.

"You wanted to see me, Ephraim?"

Shiloah motioned the senior analyst into his office and directed her with the same fluid motion toward a seat.

As Weitzel sat, her enthusiasm got the best of her and she bubbled over with the news that would have brought her to the CO's office independent of his summons.

"Ephraim, Big Ears intercepted a signal _inbound_ identical to our outbound signal in encryption and frequency. Something _is_ going on between someone in The Control Zone and someone off-world-."

Shiloah silenced the REF commander with a simple motion of his hand that put her into listening mode, "Anne, DARO wants its bird back."

Weitzel felt the small hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand up, and was surprised to not feel her jaw in her lap as it dropped, "- _Want their bird back?! They can't have it!"_

Shiloah's expression was shocked for a split-second, but softened and turned into the kind of laugh brought on by such a surprise. He was joined the following moment by Weitzel who felt a moment's chagrin for having made such a declaration.

" _Well if you say so, Anne-."_ , Shiloah said, his laughs subsiding with a diminished rise and fall of his thin chest under his uniform shirt, "Give an old man a little credit and a moment to speak, why don't you?"

Weitzel found herself no longer laughing, but still feeling the shock of what had caused the outburst. Shiloah's mannerisms told her that he had some good news to offer, but it was not to be nearly as good as what she had anticipated to have had offered to her by the time she left the small office.

"Sorry."

Shiloah continued, "There's been a significant elevation in Zentraedi activity in The Control Zone, Anne-. DARO doesn't have the resources to support all of the air reconnaissance requests it's receiving. Our tasking is lower on the priority list than most because of immediacy issues. _But-._ "

Weitzel leaned anxiously forward, "I was hoping there was a _but_."

" _But_ I've bought you seventy-two hours."

"Ephraim, I could kiss you-."

Shiloah elaborated, "That seventy-two hours is concrete and non-negotiable, Anne, understand that. At seventy-two hours and one second, your UAV is on its way to its new tasking even if you come across God hand-writing himself the missing Commandments."

"I understand.", Weitzel said, "What about the Big Ears?"

Shiloah shrugged, "For now, electronic listening isn't in as high demand as live video. We get to keep that time as long as we have the staff to process the output."

"I'll staple Shire to his desk.", Weitzel offered.

"Not while I'm up for Supervisor of the Year, you don't.- We'll have the Big Ears, and if we should happen upon promising coordinates, we may be able to swindle some imagery out of the photo-reconnaissance satellite handlers- no promises though. And that's about it."

Weitzel took it all in, nodding slowly and continuously. Together, it all _might_ be enough.

"Ephraim, I appreciate everything that you've done, of course, but you _have to_ keep fighting for resources for this- it's important, I can feel it."

"I got that sense.", Shiloah said, then pointed out what Weitzel was clearly unaware of in her state, "You're about to fall off the edge of your chair."

Weitzel repositioned herself without a word on the subject, saying instead, "We have a two-way conversation going on, Ephraim. I can't give you the substance of what's being said yet, but I can prove almost conclusively that there's intentional communication."

Shiloah nodded, "And I believe you, Anne. The problem is that the people who make the decisions on who gets the resources available are being handed tangible threats that require monitoring. We just have a thought-provoking theory founded on some interesting facts."

Weitzel's nodding that had continued through Shiloah's remarks was now one of understanding, "I know, I know. Still, we have to hold on to this."

Shiloah paused thoughtfully, and then said, "Well, you have seventy-two hours to gather up what you can from the UAV, Anne. After that, I would suggest taking what you have in hand and make the best sense you can of it. Until The Control Zone cools down a little, we're not going to get much in the way of assistance from DARO or the rest of the operational divisions for that matter. If you can put together a good case though- we're more likely to get the help we need _after_ the storm."

Weitzel could feel the invisible noose of time tightening already, "I just hope it's not after _this_ storm, Ephraim."

 **Brasilia**

From about three seconds after Lilith had answered her phone, Oakes and Gyle had gotten the sense that she was taking the call that was the hinge on which their whole purpose in Brasilia was hung.

That suspicion grew stronger as her posture and expression changed- her eyes darting about in thought as a voice that wasn't even a whisper to the ASC sniper team spoke to her over a secure, scrambled line. Her excitement became so intense that the two men found themselves feeling it as well- a rising tingle in the skin that caused the breathing and the heart to want to race. Like Lilith though, they retained control outwardly.

"I've got it.", Lilith said finally, "Thanks."

The ICA agent snapped the folding phone shut and returned it to her pocket. She remained silent as her face showed her to be working something out in her mind.

"Well?", Oakes asked.

Like a volunteer from the audience brought out of a trance by a sideshow hypnotist, Lilith seemed to snap back into the world occupied by her two companions.

"How would the two of you like to apply a little of that training you work at so hard?"

Gyle felt a grin creep across his face and did nothing to fight it.

"Where and when?"

"The _where_ is going to be Plaza Internacional", Lilith replied, "The _when-_ I don't know, but it can't be too long. I knew it, I knew it, _I knew it!_ _Yeshta, you bastard- you just can't help but rattle that saber of yours, can you?!_ "

"You sound sold, and that's good enough for me", Oakes said to Lilith who had dropped onto the couch in the small living room at the end opposite Gyle, "But how do we know that it's going to be Plaza Internacional?"

Lilith divulged some of the details of her conversation to the sniper team, explaining, "Supplies just arrived at four of the largest plazas in the city for speaking scaffolds to be buiLt Yeshta tipped his hat though- he must be feeling a little paranoid-. The supplies that arrived at Plaza Internacional included thick Plexiglas panes and framing. He's expecting someone to take a shot at him. I just don't think he's expecting the firepower you boys are going to bring to bear-."

"How _thick_ of Plexiglas are we talking here?", Oakes asked, his tone deeply troubled.

Lilith glanced over at the two men and found her own level of concern rising. Both men were now as deep in thought as she had been a moment before.

"You guys aren't filling me with confidence like I thought you would. What's the problem? I saw that monster you shoot blow a manhole cover in half."

"Sure-.", Gyle laughed as though Lilith was overlooking the obvious, "And I can crack manhole covers in half from now until Kingdom come if that's what makes you happy- but hitting a guy behind dense Plexiglas is a different story. We don't know how thick it is, if it's a uniform density-. Let's not even talk about the shooting angle-."

"English please?", Lilith requested.

"Look", explained Oakes, "As far as a heavy, high velocity round is concerned, Plexiglas- _plastic_ \- is a fluid. If it's Plexiglas that's been manufactured to be bulletproof, it could be multi-density- which could make it really _fluid_ fluid. That throws the ballistic characteristics of the round all off. Assuming the bullet penetrates the Plexiglas, it could come out on the other side at a forty-five degree angle from its point of entry. _That's_ assuming a head-on shot, zero angle on target. If we're making an oblique shot to the face of the glass- hell, the round could just zing off into the universe. I'm glad that we've got a fix on where he'll be, but we still might not be able to take him out."

Lilith shook her head and began to quiver in her agitated state of disbelief, "No way, _no FUCKING way!_ "

Oakes was cautious- Lilith would regain her composure in a moment, but he didn't want a further blow-up to draw the attention of neighbors to the apartment and in doing so to them.

"Sorry, we can do some pretty nifty shit, but we can't alter physics."

Lilith was on her feet now, pacing. Oakes could see her working the surge of energy off. She was flustered, but thinking. The situation was still under control.

"Okay, okay-. We just have an obstacle to overcome here-. One last little piece. One last little piece and we can get him. I just need to think it out. _Think-._ "

 **ASC Salvador Base**

"Lyle, if you can't get the video to work, will you _at least_ crank up the AC?"

Lt Col. Dalton's request, though griping was not unwarranted. The "Glamour" VC-33 cargo plane was designed primarily for the transport of small to medium sized cargo loads over mid-range hauls- and not for the excessive comfort of its flight crew. The VTOL capable cargo aircraft was certainly never intended to be a den of comfort when sitting at rest on a tarmac at near equatorial latitudes. Combined with the number crammed into a confined space, the modest air conditioning system labored for little effect.

"It's up ta tha stops.", Lyle said, half explaining, half apologizing as he toiled at the computer work station in the small partitioned space just aft of the cockpit and forward of the cargo bay, "Think cool thoughts `n give `er a minute to work."

The plane captain moused through a series of drop-down and pop-up menus looking for the application he sought. The general purpose work station was connected via the VC-33's communication equipment to the RDF InfoLink system, and was aboard the cargo plane to serve (among other things) as an information resource when the Glamour was forward deployed in a support role as it was here at Salvador. Being support personnel, Lyle had of course qualified on the use of the system and its application- some time ago- but had made little use of the common work stations or the InfoLink network since. His business was the maintenance and support of Valkyries, and in that role he needed little informational support outside of what he carried between his ears. He could have recited- in principle if not by word- the documented procedures for anything covered in the maintenance manuals, and could have hand-sketched the diagrams as well.

Interfacing with InfoLink was a chore of recalling mostly unused knowledge, and in applications that were outside of Lyle's normal scope of work.

Lieutenant Stern though, S-3 and Major Wang's second-in-command for all practical purposes, was well accustomed to negotiating the GUI menu maze.

Sweating profusely in the cramped space he served with the commanding and executive officers of Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadrons, as well as Winters' section from A Flight, the S-3 finally was about to snap with the NCO.

" _Damnit, Sergeant- just let me get in there!_ "

Lyle's hands moved more frenziedly over the console's roller mouse as a man whose masculinity was being challenged by way of his ability to operate technology.

"Ah got `er.", Lyle said, with real promise in his voice that he was on the cusp of a breakthrough in his struggle with the work station.

The video viewer application opened on the left of the two flat-panel screens to the work station. Lyle bobbed his head slightly, like a male wild turkey on a strut to display his plumage.

"See-."

"Thank God.", muttered Mumuni's XO, Lt Col. Drake, "My navel popped out like a turkey timer in this oven."

Winters snorted, "And I thought you were just excited to be this close to me-."

"You wish."

Mumuni herded the proverbial cats around her back to the purpose for which they had all gathered in the VC-33.

"Lyle, let Stern drive-. I'm about to go from medium to medium-well myself."

Lyle pried himself out of the small, anchored seat and allowed the slimmer S-3 to settle in. If nothing else, it would give Stern something to occupy himself with. Mumuni didn't know the lieutenant by much more than his face, having seen him around the operations center at Edwards several times- but she could tell that the loss of Wang and his sudden succession to the role of ranking S-3 was weighing on him.

"Okay, let's watch some movies.", Stern said, holding an open-palmed hand out to Dalton who still kept possession of the box of video discs like it was The Ark of the Covenant, "Who's first?"

Dalton dug through the box and found the cartridge he was seeking, "Start at the top. Let's see some of Jack's handiwork."

"Fair enough.", agreed Stern. The S-3 accepted the cartridge, slid it into a drive slot in the work station and set the application to work.

The disc's event index menu came up immediately and Winters baffled over the volume of event markers that by name meant little to him. Knowing that Stern's familiarity with the indexing system was greater, he could still point him into the right direction though.

"Our _targets of opportunity_ were the last weapons releases of the mission.", Winters said to Stern, "Go to the end on the gun camera footage and we'll work backwards."

"Got it.", Stern said, selecting the last index marker and playing it, "Showtime-."

The left screen instantly began to show the streak of 55mm tracer rounds at a steep angle of attack, racing toward a neat, grid-cluster of makeshift structures standing in an opening in the jungle. The puff and flash of detonating rounds cut a path of smoke and flying debris up a row of huts, collapsing them one after the other. The clip lasted for just over three seconds, and then the screen darkened and returned to the disc menu.

"Not Oscar material, but-.", Stern began.

"And not _mine_ either.", Winters said, cutting the S-3 off.

"What?", asked Mumuni.

"That didn't come out of my gun camera.", Winters said, "Play it again, Stern. Vice, does this look familiar?"

The clip played a second time with Vincenz, and also Rechtberg and Delaney watching carefully the record of three seconds of destruction.

Silence followed.

"No-.", Vincenz said after a moment of careful thought, "No, that doesn't look familiar. And I was on your starboard wing for all of your runs, shooting alongside you. Where are the tracers from my gun?"

Rechtberg prodded Delaney with his elbow, " _Ja_ and that camp seems larger, and- what are you thinking, Skinny?"

Delaney shook his head negatively, showing his agreement with his wingman that something wasn't right, "Yeah, Blitz's right- I don't think the camp was that large- and it didn't strike me as that well organized. Granted, Blitz and I were doing follow-on runs for you and Vice, Jack, but lining any three structures up in one run was hard. The shells in that clip walked through four like they'd been set up for exhibition shooting or something."

"Are you sure?", Stern asked, sounding deeply concerned, "I mean you had to be doing four or five hundred knots on these passes. Maybe things looked different with the boost of adrenaline?"

"Not _that_ different.", Vice said without hesitation.

Winters tapped the work station with his swagger stick, "This beast was on the redundant recording detail, according to Lyle."

"That's right.", Lyle chimed in, affirming the claim he had made to the squadron leaders.

"Cue up the video from my kite and let's see if it was our bad memory, or-."

Mumuni groaned, "Please God, don't let it be _or_ "

"One second-.", Stern said going into the work station's internal memory to search for the files that had been recorded during Operation Back Step.

"So", Delaney said cautiously, "What happens when we play the clip off of InfoLink and it doesn't match the one on your flight recorder disc, Jack?"

Winters shrugged, "I'll be buggered if I know-. I'm hoping that I'm wrong, personally. I really have never wanted to be wrong so much in my life."

"Here we are.", Stern said.

The right-side screen on the work station came to life with an event index identical to the screen on the left that was being fed by the recorder cartridge.

"I'm going to roll the same marker footage from both sources simultaneously.", Stern explained as he clicked the mouse button to execute.

The first split second of rolling footage from the two sources showed clearly that they were not the same. Details as fine as the quality of light in the footage to details as gross as the fact that the encampment on the left screen was not the same as the one on the right glared in the comparison.

Mumuni put her forehead into her hand and said with a dreadful heaviness, "Oh shit, it's _or_ -."

Winters indignation was keener, and more focused in its direction, " _Those fuckers-."_

"How much do you wanna bet all of our recorder files have been forged?", Delaney asked rhetorically.

"And why?", Rechtberg added, honestly confused.

Winters reminded himself that none of the other three pilots from his section had been present for the conversations between Mumuni, Drake, Dalton and himself- and he didn't feel he had the strength to bring them up to speed at that moment. It was looking though as if the moment was not far off where he was going to have to do exactly that.

"Well, let's see what that bet is worth-.", Dalton said, beginning to rifle through the box of cartridges as he responded to "Skinny" Delaney's supposition.

Winters watched the screens of the work station as Stern played bits of each event index preceding the first he had shown side to side. The S-3 would allow the video to run only long enough to determine that they were not one and the same before moving on to the next.

Dalton was still rummaging through the crate looking for one of the other A Flight, 1st Section pilots' recorder cartridge when he stopped suddenly. Winters, still absorbed in the discrepancies between what he had actually done as recorded by the VC-33, and what he had supposedly done coming from his own flight recorder and was preparing to tell Stern to finish the systematic comparison of his own gun camera footabe before moving on to the recorder he thought Dalton was about to hand over.

Dalton did not present a new recorder cartridge for viewing, but rather spoke in a tone so clearly disturbed that it pried Winters' attention away from the screens.

"Jack- Mathias said that Wang didn't get a chance to view any of these, right?"

Winters blinked at his XO, whose gaze alternated from down inside the box to up at the CO, "That's what he said. Why?"

"-And that the recorders had come right from the JOC, right?", Dalton persisted.

Winters felt his nerves go on edge the way that they would only normally do when combat was at hand in the cockpit, "Yes-. Freddy, have it out- you're giving me the creeps."

Dalton reached into the crate and when his hand came out, it held a plastic ID badge with Wang's name and photograph on it. It was the temporary ID badge the ASC staff had issued to him- to all the RDF staff- upon arriving at Salvador with the explicit instructions that it should be with them at all times.

"Well then, we have one hell of an unlikely coincidence here.", Dalton said flatly.

What all had intended to be a quick use of the VC-33 for the purposes of viewing the recovered flight recorder cartridges out of the sight of the omnipresent ASC had turned into a detailed comparison of Knight Hawk Squadron's A Flight, 1st Section's recorders against the cargo plane's records. In each case, for Winters, Vincenz, Delaney, and Rechtberg- the video for the strikes on the primary targets as outlined in the operational briefings for Back Step were matches in every detail. For each pilot though, event index markers that corresponded to the "targets of opportunity" varied greatly from one source to the other. What appeared on the flight recorder cartridges was an admirable attempt to fill the index marker files with footage of appropriate length and of targets that were similar at a glance. Under comparison with what the VC-33 had recorded through InfoLink though-.

It had taken Mumuni and Drake all of two minutes as a cooperative effort to bring the uninitiated RDF servicemen up to speed on the theories of conspiracy that the commanding officers of the two Valkyrie squadrons had been refining all day. As enlightenment had grown, morale had shrunk noticeably. Operation Back Step's "targets of opportunity", Mathias's proposition to Winters, and finally Wang- all of the pieces seemed to fall in a line lacking only the tenuous if not critical links.

"If there's anything I hate more than having a lie fed to me, it's having a _bad_ lie fed to me.", Capt. Rechtberg said in a moment of retrospection, "How could they _not_ think we'd notice, eh?"

Lt Stern speculated, "Maybe they didn't know we had a redundant recording system in play? Maybe they figured if the tapes were out of our hands long enough, we'd forget the little details and it would all just get reported and filed as neatly as the pieces would fit."

"Maybe that was the reason we had such a big blow-out right after the mission.", Delaney suggested, "Kill some brain cells so that memory is a little hazy."

"And if they greased the right wheels", Winters added, speaking clearly of himself, "that would smooth out any of the remaining rough spots. But it didn't because Wang wouldn't let it go. He goes over to the JOC, gets a hold of our tapes somehow, and maybe even goes so far as to compare them against what was on record on our equipment there-. They find him out- or find out that he's found them out. You can imagine what happened next. All while the rest of us were happily pissed out of our minds."

"There's still the _why_ question.", Dalton pointed out, "Why go through all the trouble? Why dupe pilots into an attack? Why forge recorder footage? Why murder a man? _Why_ is the important question."

"It has to be narcotics, or something related to it.", Winters said, "It's the only thing that makes any sense. Braddock and at least some of his men have a little operation going that they're lining their pockets with, and they don't want to lose it."

Mumuni made an exasperated gesture, "Good theory, Jack- only you can't prove it."

"It's a _great_ theory, thank you.", Winters said curtly, "One that Mathias tried to bring me into on the trafficking end. He said he needed things moved discretely, remember? What else would you make such a fuss over moving quietly? Arms? Not weapons. Hell, if anything the illegal weapons trade would be coming the other way, down here. No, they're getting fat off of drugs the same way that people have been doing for damn near a century around here."

Mumuni shot back, "Fine, but you still can't prove it-. And who would you be proving it to?"

"I don't know who I'd be proving it to.", Winters replied, " _Myself_. There, that's a good enough answer for me. And I can prove it. Whether I'm wrong or I'm right, the answer's with those encampments we shot up. Stern, we can get the positions off of the InfoLink logs from this crate, can't we?"

"Sure.", said Stern, "The ASC was thorough enough to change your recorders' navigation logs to throw the locations off by ten or fifteen kilometers, but working from the logs onboard here- I can tell you where each round you fired landed practically."

"Good.", Winters resolved, "I'm going then. Lyle, get _Marilyn_ ready to fly-."

"Oh no you don't.", Mumuni countered- her voice was firm and dared defiance- "Imagine for a second that you got flight clearance between here and there, which you won't get from Braddock assuming what you're saying is true. Assume that there aren't five hundred SAM and AAA batteries between here and there to blow you out of the sky. Assume all of those things and that you actually get there to find out what you're saying is true. What then? Do you expect Braddock to just shrug and say, _I give up, you caught me!-?_ God knows what he'd do? And we're certainly not going to find out. We've got all of the evidence we need to stir up a formal inquiry _when we get back to Edwards_. You are _not_ charging off on a personal crusade on this, Jack- am I clear?"

Winters looked away, "Very clear."

"Look at me and say it.", Mumuni ordered.

Winters looked at his superior evenly and said calmly, "You are very clear, Colonel Mumuni, _ma'am._ "

"Good.", Mumuni said, "And I don't think its necessary to spin the others up either. For now, we'll just keep contact with the ASC personnel at a minimum. Dusty, you're coming with me."

Mumuni eased her way out of the crowd of pilots with her executive officer in tow headed toward the cargo ramp at the rear of the aircraft.

"Where are you going?", Winters asked.

"To see that Goodson is ready to take his transports home.", Mumuni replied, "And I may take the opportunity to have one more chat with General Butler. Stay in sight though, Jack. Maybe if the ASC doesn't see us moving around in a herd they'll think we're letting it go- all of this, that is."

"Sounds reasonable.", Winters agreed.

"We'll catch you back at the BOQs.", Mumuni said.

Winters watched the two officers depart and gave them several additional seconds of grace before turning to Lyle to say, "Get _Marilyn_ ready to fly, armed with a full load in the gun pod and whatever you can pull together on the hard points. I want to be wheels up in thirty minutes."

Lyle's expression of shock, had it been captured on film, could have accompanied the dictionary definition of _surprise_ in its purity, as he stammered, " _But you just said-._ "

"I said she was very clear.", Winters corrected, "I didn't say I was going to not do it."

"If Braddock doesn't have our asses shot down, then Mumuni will shoot us for this, you know.", Dalton advised.

"A lot of _us_ floating around in those statements, Freddy.", Winters observed.

"Yeah, I'm going with you.", Dalton said, "Better get my bird ready to fly too, Lyle."

" _Ours_.", Maj. Vincenz said, speaking clearly for Rechtberg and Delaney who were nodding in agreement, "Neither of them are likely to shoot five of us."

"Why not get the whole squadron involved and have ourselves a little organized insurrection?", Winters suggested dryly, "Freddy, I want you to stay here-. I'm taking my section though- I can't very well say that I need answers and then deny them the same."

"Why do I have to stay though?", Dalton asked, sounding put out by being put out.

"If something happens to me, the chaps will need you, and Mumuni will too. Nothing's going to happen though-. The last thing that Braddock and Mathias want is to have an incident they can't sweep under the rug."

Dalton laughed, "I'll etch that in stone- your _tombstone_ to be specific. And what about him?"

Winters looked to Stern, to whom Dalton was pointing and referring to, "Are you going to be a problem in this?"

Stern laughed the contented laugh of one who found joy, or at least amusement, in anarchy, "Are you kidding? If this helps prove what happened to the Major- _shit_ , I'll help Sergeant DeVeo load missiles for you."

"Good lad.", Winters said, slapping Stern appreciatively on the back twice on his way out of the cargo bay, "Lyle, get a move on it, would you?"

The plane captain, still looking stunned, called after the lieutenant colonel, "So- is that tha _whole_ squadron, or-?"

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

"Recruit Trainee Johnson reporting, sir.", Andy said standing at attention for a second time in as many days in front of Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae's desk.

Again, the training sergeant wore the humanizing reading spectacles as he glanced alternately back and forth between the trainee and his file jacket.

"At ease.", O'Shae said, "Take a seat, lad."

Andy settled into the same seat as the day before, only he found the "at ease" order easier to comply with in this session.

"Good marks on PT and classroom instruction today-.", O'Shae said reviewing the notes in the jacket, "Didn't go into the drink I see-."

"No sir."

"That was an observation, lad- not a question."

"Yes sir."

O'Shae closed the rigid paper jacket in his hand with an intentional _snap_ for effect before he removed his spectacles, laying them on the desk before him, and continuing, "You're being docked three graduation points and receiving this verbal reprimand as well for being out of uniform though."

"I-.", Andy began, the shock of the unexpected reprimand loosening his tongue for the split second it took for the single syllable to escape, but he was quick to choke back the avalanche of protest that could have followed.

O'Shae had caught the slip, naturally, and his expression grew more severe though not yet showing the signs of volatility that the recruit trainees had come to know so well over the past days.

"Is there a problem, Recruit Trainee Johnson?"

"No sir."

"Think Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae is being too harsh on you?"

"No sir."

O'Shae barked his short, percussive laugh as he thumped a balled fist on Andy's closed jacket, "If y're gonna lie, lad, at least sound convincing. What was the designated uniform this morning from first assembly through lunch?"

"Exercise gear, sir.", Andy replied, finding himself less "at ease" now.

"And were you in your exercise gear from first assembly through lunch?"

Andy had no desire to compound his troubles by denying what O'Shae obviously already knew, "No sir."

"Then you admit you were out of uniform?"

"Yes sir."

"Good, lad- now you're learning- _O'Shae sees all at Falkirk_.", the senior training sergeant reminded him, "Why were you out of uniform?"

Andy hesitated- but knowing he was cornered in an interrogation that O'Shae had likely been planning since the offense had occurred, there was nothing to do but go along for the bumpy ride, "Sir, I gave my exercise top to Recruit Trainee Dunn during classroom instruction because she was wet from a fall from The Tangle. She was cold, and I was concerned that she'd become ill."

"Joining the medical corps now, are we?"

"No sir."

"Don't you trust your training sergeants to see to the welfare of the recruit trainees under their charge?"

"I do, sir."

"But you took it upon yourself to give up gear issued to you, for your use, to Recruit Trainee Dunn?"

"Yes sir, that's correct.", said Andy knowing the feeling a bear got in the split-second of realization that came before the teeth of the steel trap set into its leg.

"Why's that?", O'Shae asked, "Because she was cold?"

"Yes sir."

"Miserable?"

"Yes sir."

"Have you, Recruit Trainee Johnson, ever considered the possibility that perhaps some of the training exercises here are designed to make you miserable, or at least miserable if you fail?"

"I had not at the time, sir."

"And did you consider that by giving Recruit Trainee Dunn your exercise top, you were undermining those training devices? That perhaps you may be hurting her further down the road because she did not receive that incentive to succeed or the ability to cope with discomfort?"

"I did not, sir."

"Can you agree that you actually have two violations against you? That you were out of uniform as well as actively undermining the training of a recruit trainee?"

"I do, sir.", Andy said, then found himself adding, "But not intentionally."

O'Shae rocked back in his chair, pressing his hands together thoughtfully. Andy had expected full-bore, verbal salvos to be raining in on him already, but to his surprise and relief, O'Shae was not in that mode.

" _Intentions_ lad", O'Shae said, his words chosen carefully, "have meaning when you buy your ma the wrong birthday present, or when you burn the surprise dinner you were cooking for your girl on St. Valentine's Day.- Intentions mean nothing if your _actions_ get someone hurt or killed, and that's the world you're entering into, lad. You didn't see the implications of breaking this one simple order. Consider what could have happened if the order had been something more significant. Do you see why you're being docked points?"

"I do, sir."

"Do you understand why you follow _all_ orders?"

"I do, sir."

"Consider this your object lesson of the day.", O'Shae said, concluding the subject, "Dismissed."

"Yes sir."

Andy rose stiffly to leave, and as he was turning, O'Shae added in the same counseling tone-.

"One more thing, laddy-."

"Sir?"

"No shenanigans with that one, and you _do_ understand what I mean, Striker. You're here to train, not court."

"Yes sir."

"Remember lad, _O'Shae sees all at Falkirk_."

 **ASC Salvador Base**

The heaviness of the tropical heat landed squarely on A Flight, 1st Section of Knight Hawk Squadron as Winters led Vincenz, Rechtberg, and Delaney out of the flight prep building onto the tarmac where their Valkyrie fighters were receiving the last hurried details of preparation under Lyle's scrutiny.

Not lost on Winters in his concentration on just how he was going to realistically achieve the stunt he was leading his men on toward, was that in addition to puzzled RDF personnel standing about watching the arming of 1st Section, there were more than a handful of ASC uniforms at the outskirts of the tarmac and loitering within the shade of the other hangars' open doors. To Winters, the walk toward his fighter felt the same way that the dash to "safe base" had felt in games of tag as a small boy, with the all-over tingle and the prickling at the spine.

" _Oh shit."_ , Vincenz said to no one in particular in a low voice, and then directed at Winters added, "Bandits, three o'clock level."

Winters glanced sideways, making every effort to not be noticeable in his looking. To his right, no more than twenty meters off and closing on he and 1st Section intently, were Mathias and two ASC MPs.

"To your kites.", Winters said to the other three pilots, quietly enough to be heard by them but not Mathias, "Wait on me to take off, and keep it under five hundred feet until we're away from the base-. Get to your planes, don't stop, let _me_ deal with Mathias."

" _Winters!"_ , Mathias called as he got close enough to know that he could not be ignored, "What the hell are you doing?"

Vincenz, Rechtberg, and Delaney split off for their own fighters in an evenly paced scatter that Mathias and the MPs could not contain as Winters replied, "Walking."

"Walking _where?_ ", Mathias asked, "To your plane, maybe? Your plane carrying _unauthorized munitions_ , maybe? That plane?"

Mathias was close enough for Winters to smell the vile aftershave he wore as he climbed _Marilyn'_ s retractable ladder to the cockpit.

"RDF fighters, RDF munitions-.", Winters said settling into the cockpit. He began to fasten his harnesses as he added, "I didn't realize that I needed your permission."

"Joint operational procedure-.", Mathias began, putting his hand on the ladder's shoulder-level rung to follow Winters to the cockpit.

Winters cut him short in statement and action by releasing the ladder lock, retracting it back into the fuselage and out of Mathias's grip.

"Be a chap and get me a copy of that instruction- I'm not familiar with it."

The engines of the three other Valkyries began to whine to life, and Mathias's expression went from a mixture of concern and annoyance to anger.

" _Winters!- You'd better-!_ ", Mathias began to bark, then realizing his words were not going to have an effect, drew his pistol- prompting the MPs to do the same- " _Stop him!"_

Winters tapped the engine start icon on the central MFD and brought the canopy down as the engines began to whir. Three pistols were pointed at him as the canopy clicked into place, at which point Winters knew he was safe from anything short of a cannon round. Mathias shook, his face reddened, and his hateful glare seemed to threaten to burn through Winters as he retreated from the rising suction of _Marilyn'_ s port engine intake.

The Valkyrie pilot couldn't resist but give a small, taunting wave as he flipped the Veritech's configuration control to Guardian mode. A downward redirection of thrust lifted the fighter on an invisible cushion sufficiently to allow the thrusters to bend forward at the knee joint and drop in their alternate function as legs. By the time the thrust vectoring nozzles touched the tarmac, spread now as feet, the Valkyrie's technological magic trick was complete and the fighter had become a fighter/robot hybrid with its arms and legs now swung out and serviceable.

Heat from the four Valkyries' engines powering up blasted Mathias and the MPs in waves as they holstered their weapons and retreated to a comfortable distance. Moments later, with the shriek and thunder of engines, the four hybrids rose into the air and vanished in single file over the hangars- headed north.

"What now, sir?", asked one of the MPs as he thumbed specks of dust out of the corner of his eyes.

"Find Colonel Mumuni and inform her that three of her pilots have gone UA with armed fighters. I'll inform General Braddock."

"Yes sir.", complied the MP, taking his subordinate with him as he headed in the direction of the base's bachelor officers quarters- the logical place to initiate the search.

Mathias found himself jogging in the direction of the helicopter hangars. He _would_ inform General Braddock of Winters' unauthorized flight from the base- not that Braddock did not likely already know. The order and calm of the JOC had probably already gone out the window in trying to determine the nature of the unscheduled aircraft that were surely now being tracked on radar.

Mathias would give the base CO and the JOC all of the details from the hangar as a Lakota was prepped for pursuit, and authorization given to use it. The Valkyries had been heading north, and Mathias had a strong suspicion of where they were going. Braddock would give him permission to pursue- that much was certain.

What was uncertain was what he would have to do once he reached their common destination.

 **The Piranha River, The Amazon River Basin**

Commerce was as much a part of human existence as eating, sleeping, or reproduction. So long as a human had a need that they could not fulfill themselves, it would continue to exist despite the natural forces that seemed to be put in place to impede it. And where there was commerce, there was a need for transport and money to be made at it.

Transport had been Anton Cuyan's means of income before the Zentraedi Holocaust, as it had been for his father. Navigating the snaking rivers of the impenetrable jungle's interior (most called "Piranha", at least locally) with small boat or makeshift shallow-draught barge the ferrying of goods to and from the mighty Amazon, some legal and some not, had always provided well for Cuyan. During The Dark Times, when the impossible had occurred and the winter for the first time saw the freezing of the jungle's interior rivers- Cuyan had continued to operate, using the same knowledge of the rivers and an improvised workforce of human pack mules. Then, when the long night faded and once again the jungle returned to its former self, Cuyan was still there doing what he had always done.

Passengers and customers came in more diverse skin tones these days, and the currency used in payment was not always currency, but the trade of a ferryman was the same. Best of all, with a small operation like his, Cuyan only the costs of maintaining his boat and maintaining limited partnerships when necessary with individuals like Hernando.

Cuyan's boat, _Rita 4_ (for lack of a better name and with Cuyan incapable of recalling exactly who the "Rita" that _Rita "1"_ had been named for) was a lesson in minimalism and as such of little expense to maintain. Little more than wood planking lashed with wire to a steel frame welded to twin-pontoon hulls of 55-gallon steel drums, _Rita 4'_ s helm was a hand-fashioned rudder of an aluminum pole tiller with a wooden blade screwed into it. In the past month, she had gone through three engines- a gasoline burning car engine, a diesel from a pick-up truck, and finally the current power plant- a diesel tractor engine. The greatest difficulty for each had been altering the mounts that held the engine at deck level in front of the tiller, and the forming of a connection between the engine and the single propeller drive shaft. Periodically these headaches of upkeep and replacement occurred, but it was to be expected in a new world where non-standard parts and replacements were the standard.

The same could be said for "partners" like Hernando. Only Cuyan had found that the "failures" experienced with partners were somewhat more complex than the mechanical ones his flotilla of _Rita_ s had suffered over the years. An engine for a boat had two modes- it either worked or it did not. Deck planking would either bear up under the weight of a load, or it would not. Drums comprising the hulls would hold out the water and float, or they would leak and set the barge to listing.

Partners could fail for any number of reasons and with varying degrees of consequence. There were the most common failures that Cuyan had experienced both before and after the introduction of the Zentraedi into the world mix- the partner who worked only enough to fund and bridge him between drinking or drug binges. Those partnerships were severed easily, Cuyan found, by simply pushing off into the river early in the morning following a binge night.

Then there were the partnerships that failed because of treachery. Cuyan had, over the years, also happened across the worst kind of river piracy in the form of those villains who could put on a good front, work reliably in the few tasks required in the ferryman's trade, smile at you- and contemplate nothing but the time to best cut your throat for the gain of a small barge-load of goods.

Cuyan had been forced to sever some of those partnerships as well- mostly by a .357 slug to the belly, or a knife inserted into the vital organ _du jour_.

It was that kind of ugly world though in the jungle, and man sometimes had to use the claws of steel he had crafted for himself to survive.

The partnership with Hernando was something different, Cuyan had come to realize. The stubby, raggedy man who looked every bit of a well-worn forty years was one of those souls who one encountered more and more frequently in the post-Holocaust years. He had survived the physical hardships, the starvation, the psychological horrors- but the light had gone out in him. They functioned physically as people much as the newest salvaged engine of the _Rita 4_ did- their lungs drew air for oxygen and returned carbon dioxide, their hearts pumped blood, they took in food for energy to do the tasks that filled their waking hours- but in reality, they were for all intents and purposes passing time and taking up space. Nothing was done for joy or satisfaction; nothing was avoided for dislike or aversion. They simply ambled through what passed as their lives, dulled to all around them.

Cuyan had little fear that the double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun Hernando always had at hand (and had used before in defense of _Rita 4_ ) would be used against him. He would know, he was sure, that when this partnership was over it would because Hernando simply step off the barge at a river port of call and just not return. Sadly, it would amount in sum to little more than nothing returning into nothing.

Cuyan kept partners for protection and labor. They came and went. Companionship came from the only source that had remained constant and reliable to man. Caesar, his Boxer, Pit Bull mixed mutt, had enjoyed a spot to the right of the tiller through two _Rita_ s, and eight partners- having traveled thousands of river miles with Cuyan to the _pop-pop-pop_ of the barges' various, improvised engines. He seemed to know the river as well as his owner, and Cuyan would not have hesitated to hand over the helm- except Caesar had no thumbs to handle a tiller.

The Piranha, as almost all the tributaries to the Amazon did within the jungle, switched back and forth in its lazy course and flow to the world's mightiest river. Coming upon one such sweeping bend as _Rita 4_ popped and wheezed upstream, Cuyan walked the rudder hard over to starboard to make the turn. Sluggishly at first, then at a constant rate, the stern swung to and the river- barely more than a glorified creek- opened straight more or less for another forty meters.

A sharp twinge of concern- not panic, but well-founded concern- knotted tightly in Cuyan's gut as he spotted some ten meters ahead a tree downed across most of the breadth of the river.

It was a jungle, and trees fell all the time-. But as often as Cuyan had seen such an event occur naturally, it was four fold as likely that the tree had been felled intentionally. Cuyan knew also that a tree felled intentionally across the path of a river barge could usually mean but one thing.

The master of _Rita_ _4_ drew the .357 revolver from its holster at his hip. Loaded with soft lead, magnum slugs into the rounded points of which Cuyan had cut deep crosses to maximize the tissue damage done by the bullet's mushrooming in flesh- the ferryman cocked the pistol and searched the banks for signs of ambush. Hernando had similarly thumbed back the hammers on his shotgun, readying it to sweep the bush if needed of those who had laid the snare.

Cuyan throttled back the engine to a near idle, allowing _Rita 4_ to drift into the slight current under her own momentum. Hernando walked the deck, fore to aft, stooping low as he peered off to port into every shadow of the brush that overhung the bank of the river. From the tiller, Cuyan did the same to starboard- seeing nothing. It was possible, he supposed, that if the tree that the barge now bumped against had indeed been brought down to entangle river traffic, then those responsible- if they were watching- were considering whether the taking of _Rita 4_ and her empty deck was worth the risk of being on the receiving end of the shotgun and heavy revolver. Cuyan had off-loaded what little he had been hired to ferry upstream at sandbank near an outpost some kilometers before. His trip further upriver was to seek out the generally more numerous and lucrative downstream loads. River pirates were many things, but sloppy in their calculations of profit versus peril was not one of them. Being of little value could save your life on the rivers of the Amazon.

Still, something was there. Cuyan could not see it, but he could sense it. Caesar could definitely sense it, as the dog had gotten up from its bed of an old carpet scrap, to bear its teeth in growls of increasing viciousness.

Cuyan's first inclination had been to have Hernando cut the tree, mid-trunk, with a hand saw to clear a path and pass on. River pirates would have struck already if they were going to strike. As Caesar threatened the unseen threat though, as protective dogs did, Cuyan was considering that it could be better to reverse his course on the river and take the loss of profit on his hip. If this was the snare of river pirates, he'd have to negotiate it again coming down the river- and at that point he might be carrying something of interest to them. And if this was something else-.

"Hernando", Cuyan said, deciding as he spoke, "Get the pole and walk her bow around to port."

Stiffly, and robotic in both motion and compliance, Hernando lay his shotgun carefully down on the deck and in the same stoop reached for a simple wooden pole of three meters length that was useful in navigating the tighter turns of the narrow rivers.

Hernando's fingers had scarcely touched the pole when a bolt of blue energy nearly severed his head from his body at the neck, coming from above like Zeus's fury.

Cuyan's pistol arm elevated in the same snapping motion as his head to face the canopy arching over the span of the river. He had not yet seen the shooter when he felt the last sensation of his life, a sharp burning between the shoulder blades that melted and spread to a fluid iciness through his body.

Action Commander Kevtok watched the second micronian's lifeless body tumble headlong into the brown water of the river over the sights of his particle beam rifle as Lt Hyra, to his right, killed the four-legged animal on the boat's deck with a single shot through the body.

Lt Moyrt, who had taken the first shot from the sturdy branches of a tree on the river's left bank, was already scaling his way down as the other Serhot-Ran warriors rose from their concealed positions.

Kevtok gave the norghil warrior, Diharon, an incredulous look as he studied more carefully the craft that they had taken as the fruits of their ambush. The officer had seen battle debris jettisoned from airlocks that looked more capable of providing transport, and with a greater assurance of safety.

" _That_ will get us to Brasilia?"

Diharon seemed panicked for a moment at the prospect of arousing the anger of a Te'Dak Tohl.

"Yes, Lord. I have traveled this river many times with salvage and transport parties. We can use this craft to reach a small population center where we can barter for ground transport to Brasilia. There is an encampment where we're likely to have success only a half day's journey from here."

Moyrt, with the assistance of the other male warriors who had waded into the river to join him, was in the process of turning the craft to point back down the river in the direction from which it had come. Its drive system sputtered awkwardly and a fine haze of blue-grey smoke was forming about it. It floated though, and did seem capable of carrying the small band, Kevtok speculated. As improvisation went, it was the best option Kevtok knew he was likely to find..

"What do we have to barter for ground transport?", Kevtok asked. While for purposes of immediacy, the notion of simply finding suitable land transport and taking it was appealing, but Kevtok's sense of prudence governed against it. For the moment, anonymity and the ability to appear to the micronians as just another norghil was the mode of operation that would best serve the mission. Distasteful as he found it, Kevtok was aware that he would have to rely on Diharon to dictate how best this was to be done.

Kevtok was already feeling the pressure of time slipping away, having only been on this world for a few days. His original imperative to make contact with the marooned norghil to gather intelligence for the 7th Grand Army's attack to seize Zor's Battle Fortress had been a task of great magnitude itself. The finding of The Invid Flower of Life on this world, the reporting of it to General Krymina, and her response had increased the difficulties and complexities of Kevtok's task immeasurably.

He would no longer simply be relaying critical, foundational intelligence to his chain of command, but was tasked with organizing a base of support for when the 7th Grand Army arrived. Had he had the option, Kevtok had thought for a moment that he would have declined the assignment to return to the relative simplicity of tactical operations. When that fleeting moment of reluctance had passed, and he came again to the warrior's sense that assignments were not matters subject to choice- he'd begun the effort, if only inwardly at the moment, of devising a plan of just how to accomplish this.

The norghil action commander of whom Diharon had spoken, Yeshta, was in functional command of a force of some size. Kevtok estimated that this was as good of a place to start as any. What he would do next, he was not as sure of.

He had a first step though, and as long as his warriors saw he had confidence and a plan, they would follow unquestioningly. A piece at a time, Kevtok knew, was so often how great things were achieved.

Airborne combat was an impersonal thing.

As the generalized description used and re-used to the point of cliché said, it was hours stacked upon hours of tedium and boredom punctuated with moments of abject terror. To be sure, there was terror like in all combat- as there was the odd exhilaration that came with either having Death in your pocket or he having you in his. There were the rushes, the following, almost depressive let-downs, and all of the forms of fatigue that human flesh was heir to- but it was an impersonal thing.

A target was something that you saw through the HUD, through a gun sight, or on the radar screen. A pilot knew the consequences of pulling the trigger for weapons release, but like battling ships at sea or in space- the destruction and death lacked the personal qualities that were so real to the infantry.

There were clear glimpses of living beings made dead by your actions, their bodies broken and torn. There no _zing_ , _pop_ , or _crack_ of the Angel of Death fluttering in and filling the air about you- nor the screams of those it had found to claim or to slowly work on. Other than your own sweat, there was no smell that compared to smoke, the charred flesh, the spilled blood, and the beginnings of rot that saturated a battlefield. –

Until you landed on it.

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters had landed on it, along with A Flight, 1st Section of the 623rd Knight Hawk Squadron- his section. The opening in the dense jungle that had once been an encampment now felt very much like an open and festering sore. The sights of battle had been blunted somewhat by the passage of time, brief as the thirty-four hours or so had been- mostly burned out heaps of rubbish, no longer even smoldering, that had been shacks at daylight the morning before. There was no din of battle with its deep boom and sharp reports- only the sound of the jungle that would soon begin to overtake and close the jungle's wound again. But there was the smell, the choking stench that would not, as the Lady had once said, be washed away by all of Neptune's multitudes.

 _Marilyn_ stood, again in the plane/robot hybrid Guardian configuration, a dozen meters off, nose dipped at the ground, bowed like a guilty thing called to answer for its actions. Vincenz, Rechtberg, and Delaney had landed their Valkyries in the same station that they had flown- and now wandered the area, witnessing the residual evidence of a crime.

Winters had not strayed far from his Valkyrie to see all that he needed to see, and had resigned himself to sitting on the ground with his knees drawn up into his chest by the decaying pile and spray of human gore that stewed in putrescence under a thick cloud of glutted black flies.

Winters had no sense of just how long he had been there when his ears had detected the distant thumping of helicopter rotor blades approaching. Perhaps it was his displayed lack of concern, or perhaps that they were feeling the same overpowering indifference that caused it that none of the other pilots had suggested or made an attempt to man their aircraft even as the single Lakota slick with ASC markings swept over the ruin before landing somewhere a short distance north.

Winters had known without tangible cause for knowing that Mathias was aboard the helicopter that had over flown him, so after several minutes it was not a surprise to him to hear the ASC pilot's voice. If there was any surprise, it was that Mathias had not opened the conversation with a pistol shot- which in truth, Winters admitted to himself he may have welcomed.

"Tell me something, Winters-.", Mathias said. He was alone, armed, but alone. Butchering A Flight, 1st Section was clearly not foremost on his mind. Butchery in the other direction skirted the outsides of Winters' though.

"You ever seen _The Planet of the Apes_? The good one, I mean-. The one written by the guy that did all them old _Twilight Zone_ shows?"

"Probably.", Winters said hollowly, "Is this a prelude to flinging shit at me?"

"Sort of.", Mathias said, approaching Winters only to stop and stand in the corner of the sitting colonel's vision, "There's this great scene I love at the end when Chuck Heston's got the head monkey tied up, and he's about to make his escape to go and find out the truth of why the monkeys hate the humans so much-. And this monkey says- _Don't search for it- You may not like what you find_. Great advice. A little late for you, maybe, but still great advice."

"Profound. Really profound.", Winters said, then looking over at Mathias, asked, "This is all about drugs, isn't it?"

Mathias's face brightened with the amusement of one witnessing another's mistaking of a clear and obvious truth.

He gave the barking, deep-chested laugh that Winters hated more each time he heard it and replied, " _Drugs?_ Fuck no! This is about _war!_ "

Winters was on his feet so quickly that the blood rushed out of his head and he felt faint as he railed, "This isn't _war_ , this is _murder- you son-of-a-bitch! And you had me do it for you!_ "

Mathias shook his head, "I wish you'd just ask me- because you're _clearly_ not seeing the big picture, and I'm just _dying_ to show it to you- damn, self-righteous, limey prick! Yeah, I think you got your hands around the drug part- congrats on that, Einstein."

"What for, other than to line your own pockets?", Winters demanded, feeling his fists clenching and unclenching by themselves in the absence of his swagger stick to grasp.

"Besides a small gratuity to me and others", Mathias explained, unashamed, "it goes toward everything you've seen for the past _three fucking days!_ Where do you think the money for the planes, the bombs, the fuel, the food, and the toilet paper comes from? What? From the scraps the UE Armed Services Appropriation Committee tosses the Southern Cross? _Get real!_ The REF gets money to build fancy ships, and the RDF gets money to buy equipment and build bases to protect the cities in councilmen's jurisdictions- while _we're_ down here in the shit, taking the problem by the horns. How do you figure we should get the funding for that?- bake sales?"

"So you deal in filth and murder just to keep some notion of being in the fight? Have a look around-. You're killing the people you say you're fighting for. You're the one who needs to get real.", Winters said, his voice losing its edge of anger to a colder tone.

"People are gonna die.", Mathias said, shrugging off the issue, "That's the sad fact that you RDF types don't want to admit. People are gonna die, no matter how neat and clean you like to pretend that you do things. _Fewer_ people will die down here when the shit finally hits the fan if there's a strong _human_ force to defend against the open sewer of dittos that's ready to spill out all over The Control Zone. That's _us_ \- which brings us back to the question of how do you pay for that dirty little buffer between the nasty Zentraedi and the _blossoming flower of humanity_?"

"You're out of your bloody mind, do you know that, Mathias?", Winters asked, now aware that the rest of his section had gathered nearby to witness the exchange and intervene as needed.

The two men walked a small, tight circle- facing off like Old West pistoliers vying for position and awaiting a twitch from the other to crack the tension and set the battle into full blaze.

"I'm out of my mind?", Mathias balked, "That's a visionary statement for a man wearing blinders! So, what-? It's better to have a continent swept away under a blue wave so we don't taint ourselves with a demon that's always been there and always will? That makes sense- die, but _die clean_. Hell, at least this way the demon works for us."

"Great-.", Winters laughed, "Remember that defense for your trial, and we'll see how it plays."

Mathias was dumbstruck for a moment, halting the slow circle, " _Trial?_ You think there's going to be a _trial?_ You pretend like you're the first person to connect the dots!- _Everyone knows, Winters!_ \- You're just late to the game. The RDF knows it-! The UE knows that food and medicine that it sends down here- some of it ends up in the bellies of the people who grow the shit. They know that some of it ends up in the bellies of the Zentraedi we use to keep them under thumb, and who move it in the Control Zone. The UE knows it, and they keep sending it with no investigations, no inquiries, _no questions asked._ The RDF knows it- and they keep flying the supplies in- just like _you did._ No questions asked- and do you know why? Because we shoulder the burden of doing the dirty work, of being the bad guys, and of keeping a lid on the real problem on the front lines while you build and polish your air wings and fleet. Now _that's_ a silent nod of consent if I ever saw one."

"You're full of shit.", Winters shot back, "Should one ray of light hit this, and your tidy little sense of the world will scatter like cockroaches."

"Go ahead then.", Mathias said invitingly with a shrug, "Go right ahead. You'll see it all swept under the rug so fast, it'll tear your eyebrows off. The system is ugly- but _it works._ It won't work forever- but _it works for now._ Stand in front of a room of generals and explain how containing a half billion hostile aliens isn't worth tarnishing your soul. File the report- I'll give you the pen and paper to write it out. If I have so much to worry about, why didn't we blow you off the face of the Earth when we flew over?"

Winters felt cornered by the point and couldn't help but begin to see the cracks in the notion he held that there was a great secret being defended. It wasn't the _secret_ being defended – it was the machine.

"And how does Wang figure into that?", Winters asked, "What did he see that I haven't that got him killed? What did he find out that scared you enough that he had to be murdered?"

"Nothing-.", Mathias said, "But we needed an insurance policy. Just because you know the truth of the whole thing, doesn't mean we want you screaming it from the hilltops."

"Killing Wang to keep me quiet?", Winters scoffed, "That makes sense."

"Who killed Wang?", Mathias asked, "That's a question you ought to ask yourself, and then ask- _who can prove it?_ Call it the danger of using an automatic all these years- but that fucking hand cannon of yours kicks like a _son-of-a-bitch!_ And you'd be surprised how often the slugs turn up when you least expect them. Consider it."

Winters stopped dead in his tracks as Mathias casually withdrew in the direction of the area the Lakota had landed in. He passed the other pilots of 1st Section without so much as a word or a glance, but said back to Winters over his shoulder.-

"You can find your way back to base, I'm sure- and I'd do it soon. You can never tell whose running around the jungle these days, or what they'll do. It's gonna be a mess for a while around here you know. A real mess."

Mathias heard Winters unsnap the strap to his holster and draw the .44 revolver it held. He was unconcerned apparently though, as he didn't even bother to look back as he parted with a borrowed warning.-

"Don't seek it, Winters. You might not like what you find."

Winters thumbed the cylinder release on his pistol, and spilled the contents of the chambers into his left palm.

Five heavy .44 caliber slugs, and a single spent casing.

104


	8. That One May Smile and be a Villain

**Chapter Seven**

… **That One May Smile, And Smile, And Be A Villain…**

"From time to time there comes one of those moments when you wake up one day and realize that the world has changed. Sometimes, on horrible occasion, you further come to realize that it wasn't the world that had changed so much as that you finally opened your eyes to it. I think the word is _epiphany_ , which is defined in this context as: _an intuitive grasp of reality gained through something such as an event._ "

"For the record, I'm going to submit to the guardians of the King's English and of the common lexicon the alteration to read- _Epiphany: An intuitive grasp of reality gained through something such as an event that feels more like a swift kick to the ballocks."_

"It may take."

Lt. Col. Nigel Patrick Winters

Commanding Officer, 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron

 **ASC Salvador Base**

In the span of 90 minutes, Winters had come to understand the meaning of "silence" in all of its clichéd combinations with adjectives.-

 _Deathly_ silence.

 _Palpable_ silence.

 _Uneasy_ silence.

 _Deafening_ silence.- The list went on, and on the checklist of Winters' mind he had a check mark by each. It wasn't so much a coming to the understanding of each of these terms, Winters had realized halfway through the return flight to Salvador Base- when he had preferred to think of anything but what Mathias had revealed to him- but a revisitation of them- a refresher.

Not a word had been spoken between the pilots of his flight during the trip "home".

The only communications had been between Salvador's tower, "Babble" , and the pilots on preliminary and final approaches to landing- and these dialogues were the minimal, procedural kind required to avoid what, in a hostile zone, could lead to an unfortunate "accident".

It wasn't until the four Valkyries were parked back on the tarmac, powered down and grounding wires attached, that the silence which had lent itself to a feeling of mental isolation spilled over into one of physical solitude. Certainly, Lyle was waiting for the return of his aircraft- and Mumuni with him to take a colossal bite out of the squadron leader's ass (if he was lucky, Winters speculated). There were also the RDF ordinance handling teams who safetied the weapons and began to remove them from the Valkyries' hard points even as the tires were being chocked.

Through all of this though, there was not an ASC uniform to be seen, and this Winters realized as Mumuni descended upon him and set into him, was the root cause of his feeling of solitude.

Winters was suddenly and keenly aware that he was not feeling "alone" in the sense that a man in a raft, lost at sea felt- but rather the way that Caesar had likely felt in that split second on the Senate floor before the first dagger point had pierced flesh. The squadron leader had half expected assassins to greet him at the foot of his fighter's ladder- but found it more disquieting that none came bearing daggers.

Perhaps they knew better than he that no such drastic act was needed.

Winters had been aware that Mumuni had been addressing him since the moment that _Marilyn_ 's turbines had spun down sufficiently to allow a voice to be heard above them.

He had been aware of her addressing him in sheer rage- though the meaning of the words she spewed had failed to register with him. He was also aware that her state had gone from sheer to near incandescent rage as he failed to respond to the meaningless collection of sounds pelting his ears.

At some point though, in response to something she had seen in his face, Mumuni fell quiet. It was not the colonel abandoning her anger, or her obligation to apply discipline in the face of its appalling disregard- but rather that she recognized that Winters was in possession of something horrid that made all other concerns secondary to him.

In that moment, the having of that truth became to Mumuni more important than the heavy application of discipline.

This alone prompted her to summon her own squadron to squeeze into their surrogate ready room for the same informal debrief to which Winters had ordered Dalton to summon Knight Hawk Squadron.

Not, Winters or Vincenz, nor Delaney or Rechtberg had said a word before the two squadrons, and as many of the support staff as could fit in the room had assembled.

No ASC personnel had been seen during the gathering of RDF officers and enlisted. No MPs had shown up to arrest the four pilots on numerous and gross violations of operational regulation which would have also effectively compartmentalized all that the four now knew from their fellow pilots and support staff. Instead, all seemed to happen in an opaque bubble. The RDF saw nothing of what the ASC might be doing, and the ASC showed no interest in the activities of the RDF.

Winters had reign to divulge all he knew and did so in short order.

From the peculiarities of Operation Back Step, and the suspicions he and the other ranking officers had developed surrounding them, to Wang's suspicious death, and finally Mathias's confirmation on all and elaboration beyond.

The proverbial "bomb" had dropped with a devastating effect, and in another moment that Winters, even in his numbed state, recognized as a cliché of "silence"- a pin could have been heard hitting the floor.

" _Motherfuckers-._ "

The single, expletive encompassing all meanings came from somewhere in the mass of pilots and was reassuring to Winters in what it communicated. He had gotten it all out, or enough of it out for the pilots to understand the situation of _it_ and their position.

 _It_ included food, supplies, material, medicine, and weapons to support the growing, harvesting, processing, and distribution of narcotics for money- as well as the brutal oversight and enforcement of the enterprise.

 _It_ included virtual slavery, almost definitely, and murder for certain.

 _It_ was a pool of filth that thirty-two pilots and several times as many support personnel had suddenly discovered they were wading in- some deeper than others.

"So, that's it.", Winters said in conclusion but not conclusively, "That's where we stand."

Maj. Cruz raised his hand immediately, "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Winters glanced to the side of the ready room where Mumuni had stood as silent audience to the Knight Hawk CO while never losing the appearance of command.

He knew without needing to ask that she too suspected that every word was being listened in on by the ASC. Having been given the full story, or the full story to the best of Winters' knowledge- the 623rd's CO was confident that his pilots were likely suspicious of this too. The ASC also reckoned to have the lot of them over the barrel head, so there was little that Cruz could say that Winters reasoned they would not expect to hear.

The pilots had to vent, and Mumuni nodded her approval.

"Granted, Maverick.", Winters said.

"The _fuck_ that's it, Jack. They smoked Wang, I say we're due a little eye-for-an-eye action here. We can start with that fat fuck, Mathias."

"Definitely not.", Mumuni said from the side of the room, asserting her command clearly, "Most definitely not. You're being given this information to make my next order to you all very, _very_ clear- not to inspire vigilantism-."

"But we _are_ Vigilantes.", one of Mumuni's pilots commented, drawing affirming whoops from others in the squadron.

" _Fuckin' A, brother!"_ , came from another of Mumuni's pilots to the rear of the room.

"Pipe it!", Mumuni snapped, "The order is-. No RDF personnel are to have any unauthorized contact with ASC or civilian personnel, nor are any ASC or civilian personnel allowed access to _any_ RDF aircraft, equipment, or supplies- and either Lieutenant Colonel Winters or myself will do the authorizing. I'm also imposing a general restriction to quarters and common living areas of the BOQ and barracks for RDF personnel not engaged in duties approved by Jack or myself. That goes to include an absolute curfew of twenty-hundred. Furthermore, no RDF personnel are to go anywhere on post in groups smaller than three. No exceptions. General Butler is trying to get us transferred to an RDF base- but until that happens we need to button up and take care of one another. Are we clear?"

A low, uniform, gripe and grumble rolled back at Mumuni- discontented compliance.

"That translates roughly to, _yes._ ", Winters said.

Mumuni said to the audience of RDF personnel, "Then you're all dismissed to return to quarters or sanctioned areas."

All filed out of the ready room quickly. Neither Winters nor Mumuni had the slightest doubt that the aim of all was to engage in conversations on conspiracy- the ASC's or brewing conspiracies of their own- as soon as the possibility of prying ears was gone. Winters knew because he was no different from the others in that respect.

The light of day had begun to soften as the sun had been lost below the trees of the jungle and the day would soon begin to fade into night. Across the tarmac from where the Valkyries of the two RDF fighter squadrons stood idle, Winters could see into one of the hangars occupied by the aircraft of Cavalier Squadron. Mathias stood, leaned against one of the large sliding doors in a crossed-arm, "cool" pose the way one was accustomed to seeing James Dean standing in old movie stills. Mathias made no attempt to conceal himself, or to disguise that he was watching Winters with the same interest a cat showed a mouse that it had mauled and clawed to near death in a feline's gruesome game of catch and release.

Winters stared back evenly, only breaking the exchanged gaze to say to Mumuni, "Maverick is right, you know."

Mumuni offered Winters a cigarette, which he accepted as he looked back hoping that he could summon that "super" ability to burn Mathias in half with lasers from his eyes, or at least will him into hearing what he had to say next.

"What's that?", Mumuni asked. Her voice was distant, and she was clearly in her own far-away place mentally.

"The _fuck_ that this is it."

Mumuni shook her head in somber acceptance of her position, saying, "I know."

Winters paused, holding his cigarette near his lips as though expecting that Mumuni would sucker-punch him should he decide to take a drag from it. Truthfully, he was predicting a sucker-punch of another kind- the kind where he would step out, elaborating on his last statement, only to have Mumuni jump on him with both feet.

"No- _no you don't or else_ \- speech?", Winters asked, "I thought you were playing the part of the responsible one here. You know, your _Yin_ to my _Yang_."

"My _Yin's_ going nowhere near your _Yang_.", Mumuni said, trying and failing to bring a little levity to the situation, "And I _am_ being responsible. God help us all, but it's just being responsible in the same way as _you_. I just don't know how we're supposed to do that though."

Winters thoughtfully tapped the ashes away from the burning end of his cigarette, "See- being a fuck-up takes more effort and skill than people give me credit for."

Mumuni laughed darkly, like one who'd just slipped her own head into the hangman's noose and had had the brief notion to complain about the comfort of the fit, "So I see. The good news is that you won't have to burn alone this time… _Damn if I wasn't starting to like the feel of those birds on my shoulders._ "

"Cheer up, Ganyet.", Winters said optimistically, "We could just as easily get ourselves killed, and then you wouldn't have to feel the sting of it."

"Good point. Any thoughts on just what treasonable act is going to get us killed?"

"Not a one. Something will come to us though. It's not going to be neat and pretty though, Ganyet- _nothing_ about this is going to come out neat and pretty."

"I've resigned myself to that fact.", Mumuni said, tossing her cigarette to the ground and grinding it out under her booted toe, "What's that saying though-? The one about evil only needing good to do nothing to prevail?"

"God help _good_ if we're on the first string.", Winters said, "But all the same, I'd rather burn for doing something than slink off without doing anything."

"For Wang?", Mumuni asked.

Winters could tell that the colonel was working to establish her moral footing for whatever would come next. He could tell because he was still working at it too.

"Maybe…. I know this though-. I got dragged through the filth and became a working part of it without my knowledge or consent. I'm willing to do it just for me. Wang is the kicker."

"It kind of makes you wonder.", Mumuni supposed, "What Mathias said to you-. It makes you wonder how many people help to make the whole thing work without knowing, and how many know and help to make it work because it serves a purpose. How many people think that the end justifies the means?"

"I don't.", Winters said- a hint of bitterness to his voice now as he tossed aside his cigarette butt that had burned to the filter, "They didn't ask, but I'm not going to have them profit by my complicity- no matter how inadvertent. I want to burn them before I go down. I want to burn them _all_."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

"BE PREPARED FOR ELEVATED ROGUE ZENTRAEIDI ACTIVITY- YOUR PATROL AREA- AND INCREASED LIKELIHOOD OF SPORADIC ENGAGEMENTS WITH SMALL ROGUE UNITS."

So had read the text message from Capt. Nguyen to Lt. Whilite, as though the verbal briefing the platoon leader had received at the mid-day check-in had not ingrained in him the probability that his patrol area was to become more _lively._

 _Elevated levels of rogue Zentraedi activity and increased likelihood of sporadic small unit contact-. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock_.

The thoughts raced through Whilite's mind as his body, almost in paradox, was perfectly still as he lay on his belly and elbows with his M-35 at his shoulder, inhaling the rich, slightly moldy odor from the same patch of jungle floor he had been inhaling for a good part of the afternoon.

"Contact" had been made just after 1400hrs, local, with 2nd Squad on the point. Moving parallel to a known trail in hopes of encountering rogue Zentraedi movement to monitor, 3rd Platoon had. With PFC Erin Waters on point and Sgt. Mundell on compass, the leading element of the Ranger platoon had nearly run headlong into a Zentraedi unit coming east. It had not been for any reason of carelessness on the Rangers' that the Army and rogue elements had nearly bumped heads, rather it was their skill in quick concealment that Whilite was convinced was the reason that a chance meeting had not turned into a firefight. No, the Zentraedi (as evidence to their superb adaptability) had just been moving as stealthily as 3rd Platoon, and had random chance opted differently- it may have been the aliens who had first detected the presence of the humans and melted into the dense undergrowth of the environment.

Still, the Rangers had first detected the Zentraedi and not the other way around, had taken cover to conceal, and had kept the initiative.

Simply vanishing into the dense vegetation of the jungle floor had nearly not been enough 3rd Platoon had found with several extremely tense, brick-passing moments when alien and Ranger had been within an arm's length of one another. The prospect of fighting was not distasteful to Whilite, and he and his Rangers were certainly armed for such an event- but it was the not knowing of _what size_ Zentraedi element he would be fighting if the bullets started to fly that gave Whilite and his platoon pause.

The pause had turned out likely to be a life saver for Echo Company's 3rd Platoon.

The chance encounter with the Zentraedi element had turned into a single-file trickle of alien warriors that had amounted to perhaps the equivalent of a reinforced platoon. That trickle had then become a stream of platoon-size units at short intervals that had amounted to a company. The company stream in turn had grown in density of flow into a regimental river that was still on the rise and swelling over the banks of the new jungle path it was cutting for itself.

Three times in roughly as many hours, Whilite had been forced to give successive orders to fall back up the gradually steeping rise of a hill that ran through the jungle for a hundred meters or so like its own miniature mountain range swallowed by the canopy. Each movement had been a desperate act to maintain the Rangers' concealment as each Zentraedi unit that marched along the "path" seemed to broaden it until its edges came dangerously close 3rd Platoon's forward-most positions.

Before the second order to fall back, Whilite himself had been close enough to the passing Zentraedi column that a warrior stopping to urinate on a broad-leaf jungle plant (apparently some things transcended the species- males always felt the need to pee on _something_ ) had splashed him indirectly with the stream. With his heart in his throat still from the perils of proximity, and the thick and strangely copper-hued odor of Zentraedi urine still in his nostrils- Whilite had ordered the platoon to pull back.

Withdrawing from the ever-growing path, while a practical necessity, had proven to be an exercise of some complexity. Periods when there was a break in the line of Zentraedi were few and fleeting. Most of the second, and then a short time later the third withdrawal had been reverse crawling on elbows and knees.

The reverse climb up the ridge's rise had been slow, but eventually had put 3rd Platoon high enough on the slope as to make it improbable that a Zentraedi warrior straying from the main body with which he or she was moving (there had been several clusters of female warriors moving through as well- segregated to their own kind as Zentraedi still tended to do when given the option) would not accidentally trip over a Ranger. Whilite's intention, formed in the process of crawling as it was, had been to move the bulk of the platoon to the other side and remove them completely from the possibility of discovery. That plan had died quickly when two Rangers from 4th Squad had made the exploratory crossing of the ridge top to find that it was in fact a natural feature dividing a single Zentraedi column into two.

With Zentraedi passing ahead of and behind its position, and with them likely dividing from a single column into two on the left flank and rejoining on the right, 3rd Platoon was essentially marooned on an island in the jungle and forced to wait for the sea to recede.

Unlike Crusoe however, Whilite did have contact with the outside world and through it had plenty to do to occupy himself. Through his PICS interface to InfoLink, Whilite kept Captain Nguyen constantly updated about the size of the Zentraedi force he was virtually swimming in, its speed of movement, and the direction it was moving to the best of his ability to know. Similarly, _other_ platoons of Echo Company were reporting in Zentraedi mass movements in their areas which Whilite was able to monitor on the small display on his forearm.

While the destination of the Zentraedi march was unclear, Whilite could tell intuitively that it was one shared by all the aliens being observed by the platoons of Echo Company, and Whilite could say with certainty that he was glad he was not there. Text messaging and periodic digital photos showed that other platoon leaders and NCOs were seeing what Whilite had been seeing and reporting all afternoon- that in addition to moving in mass, the Zentraedi were moving _heavily armed._ Whilite had suspected that the reason he had not been spotted by the Zentraedi warrior who had nearly pissed on him was not because of his skill at concealment, or the effectiveness of his Chameleon camouflage gear- but the fact that the warrior had been balancing a field-worn, German MG-3 over his shoulder with one hand while the other had been occupied. The smell of copper that Whilite had attributed to urine could have likewise come from the hundreds of rounds of ammunition wound around the warrior in belts as machinegunners had been doing since the advent of the weapon.

Weapons of every size, model, and origin- both conventional and contemporary- were being borne in ample quantity by the Zentraedi. Whilite had even seen small field artillery pieces, normally vehicle drawn, being pulled by jackass and mule teams- and in some cases by teams of Zentraedi under makeshift yoke.

The most deadly weapon though was not one that Whilite had seen in his hours of near-constant observation of the rogue aliens, but had perceived: fighting spirit. This quality, insubstantial in physically quantifiable terms, was nonetheless often the very hinge on which a force's victory or defeat swung. Historian, tactician, and strategists alike swore by it. Almost every element of military training (or in the case of the Zentraedi, _programming_ ) hardened a recruit towards it, and tried to make it as much a part of the psyche as happiness or sorrow.

Fighting spirit could not be measured in units of weight or volume, but it could be sensed in terms of magnitude. Whilite sensed that the aliens' blood was up, and they were charged like thunderheads to strike. The only question was where was the storm to break? Whilite could not answer that from his position- but he knew he didn't want to be there when the lightning and thunder came down.

 **Brasilia**

"What's this?", Sgt. Oakes asked as Lilith handed him a length of garden hose pinched and fused shut at one end. At the other end, where the nozzle coupling ring was found, a radio receiver device was crudely spliced into another component that was in turn coupled to the nozzle attachment.

"That's the solution to your plexiglass shield problem.", Lilith replied, brimming with obvious pride in her ingenuity.

Oakes examined the odd creation, paying particular attention to the electronic elements at the coupling end, "You were one of those kids who saw too many _MacGyver_ re-runs, weren't you?"

"Who?", asked Gyle.

"Nevermind.", Oakes said to his junior, "I'm dying to hear how this solves our problem."

Lilith took her _magnum opus_ back from the senior sniper and held it as tenderly as she would have a child.

"This is just a quick mock-up.", Lilith explained, "But see if you can follow me here-. The segment of hose we'll fill with plasma napalm. Down on this end, we have it connected to a standard point contact detonator from a mini-munitions bomblet- _but_ the fuse to this one is wired to a scrambled radio receiver. A remote controlled bomb- though I couldn't work duct tape, chewing gum, or a potato into it. Sorry to disappoint."

Oakes took the improvised explosive device back from Lilith with a chuckle and handed it after a second inspection to Gyle, "That's okay."

Gyle, conscious of Lilith's personal investment in the device handed it carefully to her before saying, "So, if you're just going to burn him up, what do you need us for?"

Lilith set the plasma bomb down on the coffee table and took a seat to the junior sniper's right. She took up the pack of cigarettes there and lit one for herself before explaining her thinking.

"Well, it's not quite as easy as just blowing him up."

Oakes said with a smile, "It never is."

Lilith continued, "Yeshta's security will do a thorough inspection and walk-through of the speaking platform- standard stuff really, check beneath it for bombs, test the electronics for hidden explosives, all of that. Generally though, they don't do a whole lot of looking beyond the bullet-proof barrier- they figure, I think, that any bombs powerful enough to get through the glass would have to come in on a truck or something."

"So you're just going to lay this out in front of the speaking platform and hope that no one notices it and decides to investigate?", Gyle asked, motioning to the IED.

Lilith shot him a glance, looking slighted, "Give me a little credit. We'll hide it- or rather, _I'll_ see to hiding it."

"Where?- if you don't mind me asking.", Oakes inquired.

Lilith reclined into use-deformed cushions of the sofa and replied, "Well, it came to me when I was thinking about the other speeches and rallies of Yeshta's that I've cased. There's always the platform he speaks from, and a line of his personal guards in front of it. What keeps the crowd back usually are those rail barriers- like they set up to channel crowds into a football stadium. Those are just hollow tubes welded together, really. I figure you could stash something in there and no one would be any the wiser unless they were actively looking for something to be there."

"And how far will these barriers be from the plexiglass?", Oakes asked.

"Three, four meters at most.", Lilith said confidently, "I think Yeshta likes the feeling of having the crowd that close- or likes the feeling that _they like the feeling_ of being that close."

Gyle was still studying the bomb, "And you think this will be enough to soften the shield so a round can penetrate it with minimal deflection?"

"Soften?", Lilith asked, "Hell, I'm going to pack that rail with as big a charge of plasma nape as I can. It should _sublimate_ \- forget soften. Your bullet just may be the _coups de gras_ , but I don't want to take any chances of Yeshta slipping through my fingers again. That big bastard is going down this time."

"And collateral damage?", Oakes asked after a brief pause.

"Come again?", Lilith responded, not quite sounding in tune with the sergeant's thinking.

"Not to come across as squeamish, because I'm not, but if you're expecting for this bomb- concealed in a barrier- to vaporize a good part of the thickness of a plexiglass shield-. Well, let's say it's not going to be pretty for the people standing in the first dozen or so rows of the crowd.", Oakes observed, then after further speculation added, "It's going to be downright gruesome."

"Zentraedi.", Lilith replied.

"What?", Oakes said, taking his turn to not successfully track the gist of meaning.

"You said the _people_ in the first dozen rows of the audience.", Lilith reminded Oakes, paraphrasing his words, "They're _Zentraedi,_ not _people._ "

Lilith was facing Oakes, so she was not able to see the fleeting expression of shock that crossed Corporal Gyle's face at her clarification of just who would be burned alive in the commission of the assassination.

"Got it.", Oakes said, "Zentraedi, not people. Collateral damage."

"Collateral damage.", agreed Lilith, her tone and disposition suddenly icy.

"Who sets it off?", asked Gyle, suddenly rejoining the planning session much like a football player forced to muscle his way into the huddle.

"I'll take care of that.", Lilith volunteered, "It will have to coincide at the right time with you pulling the trigger. Some kind of time-delay device-. I'll rig something."

Oakes shook his head, detecting that Lilith enjoyed the required improvisation on some level, "Let me know if you need duct tape or chewing gum."

 **ASC Salvador Base**

"Now there's a man who looks defeated."

Winters didn't have to turn to recognize his executive officer's voice, so he did not bother. The evening air had remained thick with humidity, but had cooled enough to make it not far outside of the bounds of pleasant. The sky had since darkened from pink, to purple, and had finally faded into black with the base's lights coming on automatically, giving it the appearance that the Earth was returning the favor of light to the sky.

Winters had been on the roof of the BOQ for most of it, having found his way up by way of a maintenance stairway, and had even noticed some of the transition into night when other thoughts had temporarily surrendered their dominance. He had spent the time sitting along the front roof of the building with his legs dangling over the side the way boys did when fishing from small piers that stood out in the lazy flow from river banks.

The thought had come to the lieutenant colonel earlier upon hearing unfamiliar voices pass along the walkway below that allowed access to the upper level BOQ rooms that it wouldn't have required much- two strong chaps with a good grip on them- to take him by the ankles and assist him toward an "accident" that would put the final notations in his service file. There were worse ways to go. The voices had passed though without so much as a comment about the legs dangling from where there should have been none. It was then that Winters realized with some mild indignity just how squarely under his thumb Mathias (probably Braddock, actually) felt he had him- and all things being equal, that would have been true.

All things were not as equal as the ASC would have liked to believe- but for now that was a little secret between a select few.

"Not defeated, Freddy.", Winters said heavily and wanting a cigarette very badly, though per usual had not a one on his person, "Not yet anyway. Just pondering what form I want my defeat to take."

Dalton settled onto the edge of the roof next to Winters, mindful of the drop, and offered the CO his cigarettes. Winters hesitated for a moment and then took the pack and in doing so realized Dalton was offering up half of what he had left.

"You know-.", Dalton said receiving the returned pack from Winters' right hand as his left lit his cigarette, "-The Romans used to be fond of running themselves onto their own swords."

Winters offered the flame of his lighter to Dalton who had extracted the last cigarette and discarded the crumpled pack over the edge of the roof onto the otherwise tidy and well-maintained grass that encircled the BOQ.

"The last one I bought went with the uniform of Her Majesty's Royal Air Force- never used it for much. Don't see a need to start now.", Winters replied as Dalton cupped his hand over the Zippo's flame and successfully lit his cigarette, "And besides, if I were to fall on that, it would probably go down as being out of uniform so far as the RDF is concerned. A fitting final note for my jacket, don't you think?"

Dalton laughed, "You act like you're already in a box. It doesn't have to be that way. We don't have to do anything."

Winters shook his head as he held his cigarette and watched the fine orange ring burn slowly and steadily toward the filter, "Do nothing, do something- it's all the same Freddy. The only difference is the shit-pit you end up in. I'm sick of wading in it because I didn't do anything. I'm doing something this time."

Dalton nodded as though hearing affirmation of something he had known all along at last, "Yeah, the boys and I thought you were talking out of your ass back in the ready room. So, what's the play?"

"Haven't a clue yet.", Winters said, "Nothing that doesn't hold the promise of getting shot out of the sky, stood up in front of a firing squad, or spending the rest of my days in a concrete room courtesy of the military justice system though."

"Sounds great-. Where do I sign up?"

Winters glanced over at his XO, "Don't, Freddy. Pretend we never had this conversation. You've got Linda and your kids to think of-. I've got nothing-."

"-But Rio.", Dalton added before Winters could finish, "And yourself. That's a lot I'd say."

Winters smiled grimly but musefully, "I suppose. Still, you, a lot of the other chaps- wives, family- it's too much to gamble on my ham-handed attempt at becoming principled."

"It's not just for you, Jack- or about you.", Dalton observed, "I figure that Linda and me are always telling the kids to do what's right- even if it's the harder thing to do. Well, here I am. Time to put my money where my mouth is."

"By becoming a criminal? Try explaining that one to them. Some therapist twenty years from now will thank you for his retirement."

"You know damn well that if we just walk away, this whole thing- the drugs, the forced labor, the illegal supply of the rogue Zentraedi- and let's not forget Wang-. All that will just get swept under the rug.", Dalton observed, demonstrating more passion on the subject than Winters felt he himself possessed, "And that might not be as bad as willingly participating in it, Jack- but it's a close damn second- a _close_ damn second."

"Freddy, Freddy, Freddy-.", Winters said, dragging on his cigarette, "My moral compass. We'll need a pretty big hand basket to send this all to hell in-. I suppose there's enough room for a few to hold the handle together."

Dalton grinned, "That's the miscreant I know-. Besides, is it criminal to disobey orders that perpetuate a crime?"

"We'll find a way.", Winters assured Dalton.

Both pilots sat for a moment in silence looking off to the west though the sun had long since retreated below the horizon and the light had been succeeded by nightfall. The glow of the floodlights on the tarmac and runway aprons floated like a luminous mist in the darkness. The RDF CT-1 transports of Major Goodson's flight towered over and dwarfed the hangars before them and cast odd shadows into the aura of artificial light. The transports had little time left in The Control Zone. They had received their orders to depart the following day and would do so by 1100 hours.

Winters wished that he could simply join them, but _Marilyn_ and her sister Valkyries would still be standing precisely in formation on Salvador's tarmac long after the cargo transports were gone.

Wang would be going home too. At high cost, he had purchased his ticket home. Winters wondered whether the carpenter from the nearby town whose name was the same as this God-forsaken base would be able to deliver on the coffin they had paid for in advance for the late S-3. Suddenly it didn't matter as much to Winters. The gesture, which had seemed so important only twelve hours before now felt woefully inadequate. Wang would still be dead, and it was doubtful whether anyone of importance in the matter would notice or care one way or another whether he had come home in a box or a bag.

Still, the gesture had seemed important at the time.

Winters had resolved to turn in and feign an attempt at sleep when a line of headlights wormed its way like a glittering millipede through the dim space outside of the tarmac's glow following the path of the base's paved streets. Passing periodically under a lamp, the millipede revealed itself to be composed of the same large cargo trucks that had trundled away the food and supplies shuttled in by the CT-1s when Winters had still felt good about the act.

Winters watched for no particular reason, and in doing so noticed as the truck convoy passed beneath yet another of the base's streetlamps that the first two vehicles in the convoy were not trucks at all, but rather heavily armed ASC land rovers with added appliqué armoring and heavy energy weapons gracing the open, top-mounts.

The convoy slithered through the dark, pointing its own way with the headlights of the lead rover, toward one of the storage buildings that stood not far off of the area of the tarmac whose hangars sheltered the ASC fighter squadrons' aircraft.

"Awful late for a delivery.", Dalton said, announcing to Winters in doing so that the convoy had captured his attention also, "I wonder what they're bringing in?"

"Yeah….", Winters muttered, his voice distant as his energy was dedicated to thought, "I wonder."

Dalton snorted, choking back a laugh of pure mirthless humor, "It's Mathias fucking with us. Bastard just wanted to roll that shit in and rub our noses in it. _Asshole._ "

Winters found his mind was no longer inert, but beginning to spin up and pick up momentum, "You know, Freddy- it's not always about you. That chap's utterly indifferent to what you or I think or _see_ at this point. Indifferent, and careless to boot."

"What?", Dalton said, asking for clarification on a silent statement that he was certain he had heard as clearly as had it come over a bullhorn.

"What, _what?_ ", Winters replied.

"You've got that tone."

"Which tone?"

"The one that says that something bad is about to happen, and you know it because you're the one that's going to make it happen. That tone. Now give."

Winters shook his head dismissively, "Tempting as it is- it's too brazen even for us. It wouldn't even come close to working."

"Those are the plans that most often do. _Give._ "

"Get Ganyet first.", Winters said, "Let's see if she's crazy enough to get on board for this."

Dalton lifted himself enough to get his feet beneath him, "Oh shit, this _is_ gonna be good-."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

It began with the single, soft whispered report of an M-35 fitted with a silencer.

The noise was barely audible, except that the senses of the Rangers of Echo Company, 3rd Platoon were turned up all the way to the stops with the accumulation of nervous energy that had been building since they had discovered themselves to be enveloped in the advancing Zentraedi column. The jungle seemed to take notice too, as the night sounds of birds and insects halted for a moment and all was quiet save the light rustling of the canopy top in the soft breeze, and the crunch of a body collapsing into growth of plants on the jungle floor.

Then the night exploded.

Through night vision goggles that had allowed him to watch clearly the passage of oblivious Zentraedi all night through a soft green haze, Whilite saw the split-second pause of the aliens as one of their own was felled. What had possessed them to ascend the hill that 3rd Platoon had become stranded upon hours earlier was unclear. It could have been simply the practical precaution of verifying that the "high ground" was unoccupied if not theirs in holding- or something as random as a small group deciding to go over instead of around this topographical feature of the jungle.

It didn't really matter at this point.

Four Zentraedi had come up the hill instead of just going around like the rest of the column, and one had either spotted or had caused a Ranger to Whilite's right to fear immanent discovery, forcing the soldier to act.

The single, T2/SCAP round had entered the micronized Zentraedi warrior's chest like an expertly thrust dagger at the sternum, and had (as the shaped-charge round was designed to do) exited his back like a freight train.

The warrior's companions, not possessing the advantage of the NVGs worn by all the Rangers, had frozen and dropped for cover with their first sensing of the proximal danger. A "spray-and-pray" followed as the three warriors discharged their Kalashnikovs in wide field of fire in the general direction they suspected the shot to have come from. In that moment, Whilite could see clearly that the Zentraedi were both aiming in the right direction while at the same time too high to hit any of the Rangers who were similarly hugging dirt. Through the multi-spectral function of his NVG, Whilite was also able to spot the dots of laser light, invisible to the naked eye, of Rangers' weapons being trained in.

The opening exchange, though only taking several seconds, had seemed almost orderly and reciprocal as single, aimed shots put down the remaining aliens in clouds of their own exploding flesh and blood. What followed began as a blur.

Tracers from below and all around, began to zip over the Rangers' dispersed positions as the jungle below the hill clattered and pulsed with intense and rapid strobe of multiple assault rifles firing. Screeches of startled birds mingled with the sharp exchange of automatic weapons fire as the Rangers replied. Bullets from both sides gnawed through vegetation, adding a distinct and gristly organic _snap!_ To the sounds of battle.

" _Displace to rallying point!"_ , Whilite screamed over the rising volume of rogue Zentraedi fire that seemed to be doubling with every passing second. The lieutenant felt his voice crack and go hoarse with the strain of the command, and was worried for a moment that his platoon would either not hear or not comprehend him.

Far from it, the command echoed through the unit, screamed between short bursts from M-35 rifles.

Hand grenades arced through the air landing mid-range, downhill, near Zentraedi where they had not had the clarity of mind yet not to cluster. Further out from their defensive perimeter, the Rangers made sweeping use of 20mm concussion grenades fired from their weapons' M-7 MML. The concussion grenades did not have the same meat-grinder effect as their fragmentation, hand-deployed cousins that halted the beginnings of no less than three Zentraedi's advances up the hill with their spray of razor steel shards. The 20mm concussion weapons, fired mortar-like much farther downrange than the strongest Ranger arm could possibly throw, flattened groups of Zentraedi who had been slow to disperse. The aliens though more physically robust by genetic design than humans were no less susceptible to the concussion grenades' invisible furies of sudden nerve trauma and the so-called "balloon effect". The pressure generated by the high-explosive charge within a radius of ten meters burst blood vessels and internal organs without causing a scratch to the victim- within a five meter radius, death came as the blast shut the nervous system off like a switch.

In all directions, the Zentraedi column was staggered in shock and confusion where grenades and rifle fire did not kill or severely wound outright. Clusters of aliens scattered in disarray.

Whilite sensed the confusion in the aliens, though there were few hints of panic. The Zentraedi could be put back on their heels- but true to their nature they would not be on them for long.

"Flash-bang" grenades were hurled by the Rangers as the squads quickly, but in an organized fashion by firing teams of three began to displace and move toward the rallying point Whilite had set for the platoon some hours earlier in case of just such an eventuality. The rallying point, a defensible streambed just under 700 meters to the south had been selected and identified to the unit by their lieutenant using PICS interface to the InfoLink system. With his system "full up" (the issue of remaining "covert" was now a secondary one and both personal transponders and constant InfoLink connection was more a benefit than a liability) Whilite could also track the position and progress of all of his Rangers toward the rallying point.

The prospect of a firefight during any deployment in the field was very real in the mind of the Rangers, even desirable in some operational contexts. LRRP/SOG was not one of those of those contexts though. The platoon was certainly trained and equipped to fight, but was not armed for any kind of sustained battle of attrition- and definitely not against a force the size of the one that had happened across 3rd Platoon. Their survival in the final analysis depended on evasion, not engagement. Evasion in turn depended on capitalizing on the initial chaos of contact.

"Progress toward" was the operative phrase now, the rallying point was the object- and the motivator behind the generous employment of grenades and the rapid displacement of 3rd Platoon. Survival now meant getting out, and getting out _now_ before the Zentraedi reorganized and closed on 3rd Platoon like a steel bear trap.

Three meters to Whilite's left, and just slightly ahead, Staff Sergeant Byerly motioned to him from a kneeling firing position, pausing between single-fire shots downrange from her rifle. The gestures were hand signs with clear meaning, but she backed them up by yelling- almost ordering-.

"El-Tee, _GO!_ "

Privates First Class Cortez and Landon worked with their rifles and their sergeant to keep the Zentraedi off of what had now become the withdrawing platoon's rear. Whilite recognized that the fire-team led by Byerly had a superior firing position to his own to do the work from, so there was a practical reason that he should take the opportunity with the remaining three Rangers of 1st Squad.

Actually, there were _two._

All soldierly notions of never wanting to run from a fight aside, Whilite knew as the platoon officer that his first duty was to lead his people, which was a difficult task from the rear. _Besides_ , he reminded himself as Byerly and her fire team discharged their multi-munitions launchers down the hill into reconstituting enemy, _they only had them outnumbered twenty to one._

 _Poor Zentraedi bastards._

Whilite, as he moved with his firing team down the hill in an arrow formation allowing the four to sweep both their left and right flanks as they advanced with rifles at the ready, realized that there was little reason to be concerned about the possibility of feeling guilty about leaving Byerly and her team in the rear. They were wisely only moments behind. As exchanges of automatic rifle fire defined the boundaries and lines of the skirmish before him, Whilite heard deep boom of a Claymore II directional anti-personnel mine somewhere over the hilltop to his rear. The directional mine, which had been around in concept since before the Second World War, had found its newest incarnation in the Claymore II. Packing twice the number of ball bearings with a more powerful explosive charge that was also half the volume of the original Claymore, the Claymore II could clear a near 180-degree arc with the lethality of a shotgun blast out to a range of 150 meters, and with the use of a wireless detonator the operator was freed from immediate proximity to the weapon. As a defensive tool, it was as effective as it was brutal- and clearly Byerly had had the forethought to bring one "just in case".

There was little hope that a single directional mine would halt altogether the Zentraedi pursuit of 3rd Platoon, but it would give them pause and pause was all that the Rangers needed to make good their escape.

Training, Whilite knew, was the application of learning skill sets as well as the enhancement of some instincts while at the same time suppressing others. Present case in point as he and his fire team advanced steadily south crouching to remain at or below the level of vegetation on the jungle floor was the suppression of the instinct to make a break for the cover off of the Zentraedi's path as quickly as possible.

To flee.

To flee was to rush, and to rush was to invite carelessness. Carelessness in fleeing would be to not confirm a clean disengagement from the Zentraedi- to allow the possibility that some small element would attach itself to and shadow 3rd Platoon waiting for the ideal moment to re-engage. It was one of the understood battle doctrines of the Zentraedi. They were simple guiding precepts reflective of the ongoing war that the alien slaves had been designed and created to fight against the Invid.

No retreat.

No quarter.

No mercy.

Through gaps in the foliage and with the image intensification of his NVGs, Whilite was able to see at no more than forty meters the clear forms of Zentraedi closing the gap the Rangers had opened to exit their position. Weapons were raised to shoulders and panned left to right searching for a target, though without night vision equipment the aliens lacked the visual depth that the lieutenant and his Rangers enjoyed. With NVG and laser sight, the two fire teams taking up the rear could have recommenced the fighting, and would initially have had the advantage.

This was a time though to suppress another natural instinct though; to fight.

It was best to slip away and-.

A piece of deadwood snapped loudly under a boot.

Whilite wasn't certain whose boot it was- his, PFC Bixby's, PFC Valliero's, or PFC Carris's- it didn't really matter. What mattered was that while thick darkness of the dense jungle deprived the Zentraedi of sight, sound still carried very well.

 _Oh shit._

The night exploded with Kalashnikov fire in a wild and uncoordinated spray marked by the luminous dash of tracer rounds.

Whilite swung his rifle to the first Zentraedi he could draw a clean line on- seeing the laser dot appear at the center of the warrior's body mass through his NVG. The rifle kicked slightly, the gas operating system absorbing some of the recoil, and Whilite saw an explosion of flesh out of the warrior's back as the T2/SCAP did its work.

Valliero, to Whilite's right had gone fully automatic with his rifle and was firing short bursts in a concentrated area. As Whilite scanned with his rifle to find another target, he saw why. A dozen, perhaps more, Zentraedi warriors were zeroing in on the fire team- moving in with a familiar "duck and weave" that the alien warriors had likely learned from one of the resident armed forces and adopted.

Again, this was neither the time nor the place to stand and fight. Whilite placed the M-35 at his shoulder at the angle that felt right (per rigorous training with the weapon) and fired off a concussion grenade from the M-7 MML, hearing a moment later a similar popping report from one of his Rangers to his rear covering the right flank. Whilite had not yet rocked back forward completely from the recoil of the discharged grenade when the Zentraedi reply came with loud crack and hiss. The lieutenant was already on his way to his belly (a moment slower than the private to his right, he realized) as he saw the flash in the darkness that marked the launch of a shoulder-fired RPG.

The rounds fired by Ranger and Zentraedi must have crossed paths somewhere midair, Whilite thought oddly in the moment before the rocket rippled the air overhead in passing. The jungle trembled with multiple explosions that felt to Whilite like a triple-punch combination to the chest from a professional boxer as the force of the blasts rolled over him. A shower of dirt, jungle detritus, and wood splinters rained down all around as Whilite got to a kneeling firing position again and scanned his area of coverage.

No Zentraedi from the advancing group of twelve he had fired his grenade launcher at showed signs of getting up, or that they would ever get up. The lieutenant's adrenaline-driven elation was tempered some by the gut feeling that just beyond sight comrades to the recently fallen were closing up and moving in with the purpose of vengeance in mind.

Like Mephistopheles summoned by Faust's beckon, Zentraedi warriors did begin to appear in the gap opened by the grenade- moving up steadily but cautiously.

Whilite trained in on the first he saw clearly and fired a single shot, hitting the alien high in the sternum, around where the second button of a collared shirt would be. The explosive round pulverized bone and disintegrated flesh, dislodging the alien's head which flipped on a hinge of flesh onto his own left shoulder giving him the appearance as he fell of toy dolls Whilite had seen once whose bodies opened to reveal a smaller version of themselves inside. Only there was no such surprise inside the Zentraedi who had crumpled into the brush.

" _Fuck me!_ "

The sharp cry infused clearly with pain and not pleasure caught Whilite off-guard. His reaction was immediate concern, but from the conscious level. He didn't _feel_ the concern, and at that moment he realized he was feeling nothing. It was a strange, disconnected feeling that stood in stark contrast to the bombardment his brain was receiving from all of his heightened senses as tracers began to split the night around him again.

Glancing back, PFC Landon was assisting PFC Bixby to his feet, nearly lifting him. Bixby bounced on his left leg, applying a little weight to his right at first but putting successively more with each bounce. The sleeve and right side of his BDU shirt was also torn in places, and three streams of blood could be seen branching off from a central one as it found a course down his forearm. Oddly though, he still held his weapon in the injured arm's hand.

" _-It ain't shit, man-."_ , Landon assured the other Ranger as he draped the man's wounded arm over his shoulder to take some of the weight from his right leg, " _You can move on it!"_

" _Fuck yeah!"_ , Bixby exclaimed, clearly in mild shock as Landon helped him in a surprisingly fast hobble in the direction of the rallying point. Byerly and her fire team had fallen into place to close the gap and were laying down a fierce field of fire to cover their escape.

A searing heat zipped by Whilite's left ear, and the rapid clatter of Valliero's M-35 in full-automatic mode brought him back to the most pressing immediate concern. A moment later, Whilite was firing too. There was no shortage of targets, and the numbers of the Zentraedi only seemed to be increasing. The disciplined "point and shoot" was replaced by the now equally-effective "point and spray".

The urge to flee was rising again, and the rallying point felt a universe away.

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

On a good day, The Wall was an obstacle to be dreaded.

Today, and particularly for Training Platoon 6045, was not turning out to be a "good day".

The autumn Scottish weather was taking on a harder character today, substituting the heavy mist or drizzle of morning with a near deluge that had recruit trainees and training sergeants alike soaked through their rain ponchos and BDUs to their quickly-chilling bones. Boots sank to the ankles in mud the color and consistency of chocolate frosting while the water pooled in the depression around The Wall to mid-calf or higher on most recruit trainees.

The Wall was rather unremarkable in itself. Two vertical posts that in a humane application may have supported power lines stood five meters apart with weather-smoothed planks forming a solid face between from knee level to the top of the posts ten meters above.

The obstacle's construction- simple. The negotiation of the obstacle- somewhat more complex, the object being to move the entire training platoon over the wall using nothing but teamwork, brute strength, and ingenuity.

Training Platoon 6045 was apparently lacking in one or more of these areas today as six attempts to form a human ladder had proven ineffective with the evidence being a thick layer of mud on nearly all.

Recruit Trainee Cedric Collins had been quick to identify what was needed and with Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson's assistance (teamwork formed in many years on the football and rugby fields together) had organized it. The largest recruit trainees, with Fisher Kingsley (without argument the largest of the large) as the keystone, formed a base on top of which the more slight recruit trainees began to form the second tier.

Muddy boots, rain-slick ponchos, and weather numbed limbs had brought the first attempts at a human ladder down.

Follow-on attempts had involved the reasonable suggestion of one recruit trainee that a broader base would give the upper tiers better footing to stand on and a better shot at being the foundation for the next tier up. This configuration had put Cedric and Andy on the lowest level and literally underfoot of the mostly female (with the exception of Cattermole, who had somehow managed to find his way above) second tier. This approach seemed promising until the third tier brought down the whole ladder.

More attempts at the same met with similar ends, the third tier either causing the second to buckle or not having sufficient height to reach or leap up to the top of The Wall. Even if they had managed to get a hold of the top plank, Andy thought grimly as he picked himself up out of the mud once again, the female recruit trainees who formed the top tier of the ladder hadn't the upper body strength to allow anyone below them to use them as a means of ascent.

It appeared as though the 6045th Training Platoon was going to have a very long, very wet, _very_ miserable day at The Wall.

If nothing else, the presence of two of O'Shae's meanest and ugliest training sergeants who wanted as much as the recruit trainees to be out of the weather and had no distraction such as The Wall to block out any thought but, guaranteed that the platoon's frustration would have a soundtrack to it.

" _The lot`a you feeble twits could plant saplings to sit in!"_ , one training sergeant, soaked well beyond the point of discomfort, suggested, " _`N then you could just wait for `em to grow over the top!"_

Cedric looked around to the dissolving group that didn't even constitute a "huddle", saying as the mud washed out of his closely cropped hair, "Look, we're not the first group to have to do this-. There has to be a way."

Fisher Kingsley, red-faced and still breathing hard from the effort of supporting many times his own weight, grumbled, "Well, d'obvious n't workin' too great, now is't? I'm runnin' outta ideas."

"Shocking.", Cattermole said wryly, looking much like a 1920's silent film actor in black face, covered in mud as he was.

Kingsley blinked, turned two shades of red darker, then said, "Wait a tick- I'm comin' over wif an epiphany like-. Why don' we put a rocket up tha pip-squeak's ass `n sen' `im over like a fuckin' mortar?"

"Have you got a rocket?", Cattermole asked without a moment's pause.

Andy shook his head. The group was getting off task, and at it's present rate wouldn't be a group much longer even.

"Knock it off, Moggie- we need a solution, like Cedric said."

"How about we knock _it_ over.", Cattermole suggested in turn, drawing blank stares from the others, "I mean, look at the fucking thing- it's loosing its hold in the mud anyway. The forty of us- I bet we could give it a good heave and shove and it'd go over like an open bar at an Irish wedding."

"Yeah, before O'Shae had us all shot- speaking of the Irish.", Cedric countered.

An impish grin snuck over Cattermole's face, "Our orders were clear- we have to get the whole training platoon over the obstacle. No one said it had to be standing when we went over it. It's either that, or we start piling up again. Me, I'd be happy to just knock the bugger over."

"Sounds like a great idea."

Andy looked to find that Recruit Trainee Pamela Dunn had quietly joined the strategy session. She looked like the obligatory surviving female character in a bad slasher film with her BDUs soaked and soiled, and her hair clumped into thick, clinging strands against her pale skin. It was in seeing her in this condition that Andy came to realize that the platoon's cohesion was going to be lost entirely soon if no progress was made, and "progress" was not going to be getting over The Wall in any traditional sense.

"Well, then do we do it, or not?", Andy asked the others.

"You serious?", Cedric asked in disbelief.

"I'm serious.", Andy said, "The worst that can happen is we don't budge the bloody thing. What do you say?"

Cedric shrugged, "Fine- fuck it. We'll probably drown or die of pneumonia before O'Shae can kill us anyway. Let's do it."

Kingsley nodded his agreement, "Anythin's better `n standin' `round I `spect."

Armed with a plan, Cedric turned to the balance of the platoon, who still stood at the foot of The Wall trying to conceive of a way to climb it, placed his filthy pinky and forefinger into the corners of his mouth and whistled shrilly as Andy had seen him do hundreds of times on the football field to gather the team's attention.

"Right then-.", Cedric said once all eyes had trained in on him, "We're going over this bastard by layin' it flat! Everyone let the big blokes get a place to get their shoulders under it, and everyone else help lift and push the best you can! Go!"

Andy found himself sandwiched between Cedric and Kingsley as perhaps sixteen of the largest recruits in the platoon squatted beneath the lowest horizontal plank in The Wall's face, nearly sitting in one another's laps, and braced their shoulders for the effort to come. The Wall swayed slightly with a thick, sucking sound at being pressed and Andy realized that Cattermole had been correct about the obstacle losing its anchorage in the mud. It seemed plausible that the idea could actually work granted that-.

A quick glance from Andy between the bodies of the rest of the platoon that had huddled around the lifting detail to help in whatever way they could revealed that the two training sergeants had retreated somewhat from the rain for the cover of some nearby small trees. They obviously hadn't heard the formation of the plan, and were mistaking the huddle for another attempt to form a ladder.

An exhilaration came over Andy like the time when he was eight when he had intentionally cut short the legs of the horribly itchy and repulsively brown Sunday suit his mother and father conspired to have him wear repeatedly to church service. He had known then as he knew now that there would be repercussions, but there was a maniacal glee that drove him on to the act anyway.

" _HEAVE!"_ , Cedric barked in a voice that O'Shae would have envied, and a singular grunt rose from the platoon.

The Wall was not going to budge.

Andy was certain of it as all of his strength and effort only seemed to result in his boots sinking deeper into the mud as the wood plank on his right shoulder began to bore into his flesh.

"Wiggle it!", someone whose voice Andy could not put to a face blurted out over the groaning and panting.

Those in the platoon not involved directly in the lifting began to shift between pulling at the obstacle and pushing it away again- soon finding a common rhythm to the effort. The same thick, slurping noise came up from the pool at the foot of The Wall with intermittent spurts of filthy water.

Andy was preparing to renounce his faith in Cattermole's "brilliant" idea when something gave with a sharp snap. At first, he thought that it had been his back, but Andy quickly recognized that it was the sound of aged wood taking on a heavy load as the obstacle moved. As the posts were worked back and forth, they surrendered three inches to Training Platoon 6045. Andy was certain that the obstacle was moving as his legs were no longer so deeply bent and Cedric was no longer in his lap. As he felt the ground continue to relinquish the two anchoring posts, other recruit trainees rushed in to get a hold wherever they could to assist

"" _LIFT YOU BLOODY CUNTS!"_ , bellowed Kingsley powerfully enough to make Andy's right ear ring, " _LIF' `N PUSH!"_

The Wall seemed to lurch as another inch was removed from the earth, and the obstacle took on a severe tilt away from the platoon as Andy noticed that he and the others who had started in a squat were now nearly standing.

The drastic movement of the obstacle could not go unnoticed though, and a training sergeant barked loudly, sending a jolt through the platoon, " _What the bloody `ell d'you think y're doin?!"_

It was not an order to stop, technically speaking, only a first shocked reaction to seeing the unexpected. Even had it been an order to cease and desist, the order would have come too late. Gravity, physics, and factors of soil tolerance had already taken over.

With the groan of falling timber, which in truth the obstacle was for a second time in as many forms, The Wall's anchors dug out great gouges in the earth and kicked mud well over the heads of the recruit trainees.

The obstacle came down with a crash that was quickly lost under a roar of victory as Training Platoon 6045 rushed over the improvised boardwalk they had just created.

 **ASC Salvador Base**

"So, what are your thoughts, Warren?"

The base commander's residence was mostly quiet at this hour, the staff save one having all left for the day some hours earlier. The remaining attendant had served wine to Lt. Col. Mathias and General Braddock in the dimmed light of one of the parlors before leaving them to discuss their business privately.

It was here that many pressing matters affecting Salvador Base, both legitimate and not, had been discussed by Braddock and various members of his military staff and courses of action decided. In this way, the after-hours, off-the-record session now being held between he and Mathias was no different.

"Winters is going to be a problem.", Mathias said bluntly.

"A _nuisance_ or a _problem_?", Braddock asked, seeking clarification.

Mathias swirled the red wine in his goblet with a smooth motion of his wrist, "A nuisance that could become a problem. How about that?"

Braddock laughed joylessly, "One of those, eh?"

Mathias nodded, "One of those, I'm afraid. Won't be bought. Won't be threatened. Won't buy into the whole _for the better good_ routine. He's got the dying twitches of principle kicking him from inside. Those are the dangerous ones. They're like fuckin' manic-depressives… They just swing from one extreme to the other. Of course, they eventually either get fed up with whatever it is buggin' them and give it up, or they get fed up with it and do something extreme."

Braddock followed the analogy and asked, "And which way do you think Winters will swing?"

Mathias shrugged, "Who knows. I think greasing his S-3 really chapped his asshole though. I hate to say it, General, but I don't think we should wait and see how he plans to work this out."

Braddock's face grew grim, "Mmmm-. That might cause more problems than it solves- if what you mean is that we kill him."

"I do.", Mathias said, "But let's look at it like this-. He already spilled the beans to the RDF contingent here. That damage is done. All that's left is to push the issue with someone who maybe can do something about it. Take him out of the equation and then you've only got a bunch of pilots making accusations with hearsay."

"A _lot_ of pilots.", Braddock pointed out.

"Yeah", agreed Mathias, "but we've got their flight recorders doctored up- so again, it's a lot of pilots talking from hearsay. Hell, it's never been a matter of no one knowing- it's just a matter of keeping the right people in check. If we take the biggest squawkers out of the picture, then it will be easier for those who are interested in seeing us stay in business to sweep the whole thing under the rug. Hell, I don't know- transfer what's left of the squadron to a base in Iceland or on the Moon, or something-."

"And who would have to go?", Braddock asked, humoring the suggestion.

Mathias thought for a moment, "Winters- that's a given. Probably his flight, though that could be explained away easy enough- a flight of ships getting into a tight spot or particularly accurate triple-A-. Maybe his XO, and the Vigilante CO too. They've been thick as thieves since Back Step."

"Six officers is going to be hard to sweep under the rug, Warren.", Braddock pointed out, "Especially if their subordinates have suspicions."

Mathias shrugged it off again, "Fuck `em. That's their chain's problem. Unless they want us to pack up shop and head home, let them pull the rope a little. I've got enough to do without worrying about how to make a shit-heap smell pretty to the world."

"A little finesse goes a long way, Warren- that's all I'm saying.", Braddock said, "We're in the business of doing unspeakable things that need to get done, but unlike the RDF- we can't wear all of them on our chests like medals. If it has to be done, see to it. Just make sure that it can be credibly filed away when it's done. The last thing we need is to make Nigel Winters a martyr."

Mathias laughed, "Fat chance of that. You've read his jacket. His CO'll probably send you a bottle of good scotch in gratitude. The RDF likes their officers squeaky clean and polished- they don't canonize fuck-ups."

 **The Amazon River Basin**

The first light of day would be coming to the outside world soon, and with the sun it would follow that day would begin to penetrate the jungle. Day was already beginning to build its momentum towards breaking in the subtle but perceivable ways that it did in the rain forest. The occasional squawk or shrill call of jungle birds was becoming more frequent as the world began to animate beneath its pitch cloak.

Three skirmishes between 3rd Platoon and Zentraedi units, none more than a squad's size, had helped to punctuate the time between the withdrawal from the hill and the pre-dawn. Each successive contact had called for the Rangers to withdraw further into the jungle from their assigned patrol area. Staying within the patrol zone was not so much a huge concern to Lt. Whilite for purposes of achieving operational objectives anymore as it was for reasons of reaching established extraction points for re-supply of the platoon and the removal of their wounded from the AO.

And there were wounded.

For the first time Whilite had experienced another pressure of command- it had been a night of many. The pressure of having wounded Rangers under his command was unique in that it was a situation that could not be evaded, or outflanked, or outfought- the only remedy was the skill of "Doc" Lancing and time.

It had been a full fifteen minutes after 3rd Platoon had rallied at their final point and after closer examination of each of the seven wounded whose injuries could clearly not be adequately attended to with the contents of a standard issue medic's kit that Doc Lancing had informed her platoon lieutenant that none of the more serious injuries were immediately life threatening- _immediately_. Whilite did not need elaboration, nor did he ask for it as the Doc's time was best spent applying her trade and seeing over the volunteers not in a defensive posture protecting the position who had readily stood up to assist her in its application. Wounds, mostly the deep tissue kind with additional fractured bones (standard results of gunshot wounds with the weapons available to the Zentraedi, Whilite knew) could be closed to some degree and treated with antiseptics, clotting agents, and the necessary dressings. Lost blood could be replaced to some extent by the ubiquitous medical staple of blood plasma, and the plain that would eventually emerge from the fog of shock could be suppressed by the medic's other friend- morphine.

All of these things were stop-gaps though, meant to preserve life until real and thorough treatment could be applied in a proper hospital. This was where time, and Lancing's implied warning about none of the wounds being "immediately" life threatening entered into the equation, and why Whilite wished more than anything to be closer to an extraction point. Time would allow the cushion of morphine to deflate under the wounded, allow the possibility of additional contact with the Zentraedi, make probable the re-opening of wounds just from movement, and invite the sweltering jungle to set its teeth into the injured in the form of infection.. Time could not be outflanked or defeated by any tactic, no matter how ingenius.

Things had gotten quiet though, almost peaceful. It was possible that time would not have the opportunity to stage its assault.

"-If we had to move them, could we?", Whilite asked Doc Lancing in an attempt to get a feeling for the "wiggle room" he had available to him.

"Sure, but I wouldn't recommend it.", Lancing responded, "We've got some nicked arteries and a fractured femur in the bunch. They shouldn't go far, and if they do- they can't go fast or risk making a lot of injuries worse."

"Well-.", Staff Sergeant Byerly said in the tone that Whilite now recognized as being the one she used to break bad news- but bad news tempered with the possibility of a solution, "That puts any of the extraction points out of reach. I figure the growth in the area has to be thinner somewhere- maybe thin enough to open up enough with clearing charges."

"Find it.", Whilite ordered, "Take whoever you need."

"A squad should do.", Byerly thought aloud, "Oh, and El-Tee-."

Byerly handed Whilite a fully loaded clip for his M-35 rifle. This was the completion of a task that he'd ordered a little over an hour before when the last gap in contact with the Zentraedi had looked as though it might turn into a break. The escape from the hill, the subsequent running battle, and the follow-on skirmishes had exacted their toll in blood and also in ammunition. By the time that 3rd Platoon had settled into its defensive position in the creek bed, many of the Rangers were down to twenty rounds of ammunition or less. Others had more to spare, and were not averse to sharing, but the situation had called for more than dependency on good will and a giving nature between soldiers. Whilite had ordered ammunition to be collected, divided evenly, and redistributed. What he was getting back now was the result.

Fifty rounds. Whilite resolved that his rifle's fire selector switch would remain in the single-fire mode, lest he set a bad example (there was no need to give the order to conserve ammo, but in a tight spot undisciplined firing could become contagious) and in a grim moment have to order the unit to fix bayonets. They weren't there yet though, and with any luck the Lakota that would be taking the wounded out could bring ammo in first.

"Thanks.", Whilite said, accepting the box magazine and loading it into his rifle.

Byerly nodded her reply as she stood, but as she was, did say off-topic, "Your ear's bleeding, El-Tee. Must've been shift change for your guardian angels."

Whilite's hand went to his right ear and found it tacky with drying blood. He winced as he found the source, a tiny nip of flesh and cartilage taken out of the very top of his right ear. He found the strap to his boonie cap to be severed at that level and its full length to be hanging from the left side of the hat. The angels may indeed have been on shift change at that moment, but someone had made the catch.

"Let me clean that up, Lieutenant.", Lancing offered, already going into her medic's kit without looking.

"It's fine- a nick.", Whilite said, remembering at that moment for some reason John Wayne in _The Longest Day_ ordering a medic to lace his boot up tightly around his broken ankle so he might walk on it. _The Duke…_

This wasn't a film though, and Whilite wasn't The Duke, and Lancing wasn't about to let him forget it.

"It'll take a second, Lieutenant, and it will keep your ear from rotting off by nightfall in this place. The Van Gough look is out this year, don't you know?"

Whilite quietly submitted to treatment as he removed his communication headset (also sticky with his blood, but intact unlike his hat) and reset the radio to speak with the company CO. Holding the earpiece to his left ear and making an adjustment to the flexible wire mouthpiece , Whilite tried to ignore the burning sensation that accompanied the swabbing of his right ear.

"Echo One Actual, this is Echo Three. Over..", Whilite said and then paused to listen. The earpiece hummed for a moment and Whilite thought he would repeat the hail. Then, a voice, not Captain Nguyen, but a familiar voice replied.

"Echo Three, Echo One. Go ahead. Over."

Whilite was certain of the voice now, it was Sergeant Major MacDonald.

"Echo Three requesting an immediate med-evac of seven wounded and resupply of ammo. Over."

"Echo Three, Echo One. Request acknowledged. What's the status of your wounded?"

Whilite considered his exchange with Doc Lancing, and gave her a look seeking input before he replied. The medic shrugged slightly, indicating she'd told him all she could. If he was going to _embellish_ the situation to possibly provoke a quicker response, he would be doing it of his own accord.

"One, Three-. Serious but not critical. Extraction will be necessary from my current position though."

"Three, One- roger that. Stand by for instructions for full unit extraction on my next transmission."

Whilite's change of expression in surprise must have given something away because Doc Lancing paused in her treatment of his minor wound to give him a questioning look.

"Roger that, One.", Whilite said, then taking the liberty of departing from strict radio protocol on the scrambled communication channel, asked, "What's going on, Top?"

MacDonald's response was not immediate, but it came bluntly when it came, "Being recalled to Conrad, Lieutenant. This AO's swirlin' down the bowl, and word has it that base defense is a rising concern. Someone opened Pandora's box."

"Roger that, Top.", Whilite said, affirming the observation on so many levels, Will have an exact extraction position for you on your next transmission. Three, out."

"Copy that, Three. One, out."

"What's the word, El-Tee?", Lancing asked.

Whilite no longer noticed the constant sting of her treatment- he simply replied, "Looks like we all get a helicopter ride, hot chow, and a hot shower today. They're pulling us out."

"Suits me.", Lancing said, applying an improvised gauze bandage to Whilite's ear, "Any reason in particular?"

"Top didn't say.", Whilite said, "Though I think some of our people got it worse than we did. Sounds like what we caught is going down all over the AO."

Lancing gave a brief and grim laugh, "Yeah, well- welcome to The Big CZ-."

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

So, maybe it _hadn't_ been a great idea.

Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson had certainly considered the possibility by the second completion of The Tangle Circuit- the name innocuously attached to the running of a two kilometer trail (most of which was in the vertical) that culminated in the negotiation of The Tangle.

Andy felt it more earnestly as he was now about to face The Tangle for the _fifth_ time with the rest of Training Platoon 6045 under the unblinking scrutiny of Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae who had appeared miraculously (though _ominously_ may have been a better selection of adverbs) only moments after the tumbling of The Wall.

 _Remember, laddy- O'Shae sees all at Falkirk…._

" _Oh, aye-."_ , O'Shae greeted the platoon at the foot of the course's first obstacle. He had pursued, pushed- _bullied_ TP-6045 through the first running of The Tangle Circuit never losing the glow of rage that he had appeared exuding. Through the subsequent runs, during which the intensity of the rain had only increased, the duty of supervision fell on each of the other training sergeants in turn. With each complete circuit, Andy at least had returned to The Tangle with the hope if not the expectation that O'Shae's rage would have subsided somewhat.

So far, his hopes had been dashed.

" _I love PT! I can watch you do it all day! All day and all night if I have to! I love it almost as much as trying to explain to the training center commander why one of my training platoons thought they could destroy one of his obstacles! We're all going to feel that love today, my loves! Every last one of us!"_

O'Shae by now had found the first row of TP-6045 with much the same glee and intent as a child who had found a fly whose wings needed to be plucked off.

"" _MacPhearson, you slimy li'l Scottish sheit!_ ", O'Shae erupted at the thinnest and smallest of the recruit trainees in the first row of the formation who nonetheless still stood over the rampaging incarnation of Irish fury, " _T'day's the day ya get ta be a hero, lad! Y're a'gonna save this platoon from another trip over The Tangle! Y're a'gonna tell old O'Shae just who had the bright idea of knockin' down The Wall!"_

Even with two full rows of recruit trainees between himself and MacPhearson, a spotty-faced boy who appeared to be made of pipe-cleaners under his loosely fitting BDU training uniform, Andy could feel the pressure to simply spill it all. Spill the truth, and avoid another repeat of the escalating agony of negotiating the dreaded Tangle in the driving, icy rain. Still, Andy felt- and hoped that MacPhearson felt too- something in O'Shae's display that smelled of a lure to a snare.

 _Don't say a word you fucking wanker- we'll all regret it._

" _NO SIR!"_ , MacPhearson belted out and with an impressive power of volume that would have allowed one none the wiser to think that the recruit trainee had not already been through the course nearly a half dozen times.

" _Oh, you li'l crab-louse!"_ , O'Shae growled, stepping in but not lowering his own volume a decibel for his proximity to his prey, " _Y'know why the Scots wear kilts, don'ya? A sheep can hear a zipper come down at a hundred meters! Oh, laddy- by the time I'm done with you today, y're gonna wish y're in a quiet nook of the glen with your favorite wooly lass! Oh, old O'Shae's gonna work the vinegar outta ya t'day, boy-o!"_

 _"FIRST ROW UP!"_

Like Kippling's Lancers in Afghanistan the first row of the training platoon fearlessly assaulted the ascending parallel logs of The Tangle despite their bleak prospects. The ascent of the logs was slower this time than it had been the last- sore, tired muscles taking their toll. Boots squeaked and slipped on rain-soaked wood, but not a single recruit trainee went into the mud as determination and cooperation merged to get all up to the rope platform that marked the next element of The Tangle, and from which all disappeared from sight into the grey haze of the rain.

O'Shae was already on the next row, not having given a backwards glance to the first four recruit trainees who had begun the sixth negotiation of The Tangle.

" _Miller- wha's wrong with ya, boy-o?! Ya look as if ya been runnin' obstacles all day in the rain!"_ , O'Shae said, setting his teeth into his next victim whose stocky and robust appearance had proven to be mostly that, " _Ya look like your own fart'd topple ya over, laddy-. How `bout ya tell old O'Shae what he wants to know and you put an end to it all?"_

" _NO, SIR!"_

O'Shae's face twisted in grotesque indignation at the refusal, but from where Andy stood he could see something more. There was something behind the "mask" of the training sergeant that had nothing to do with the necessarily prevailing façade of discipline and range- something that threatened to break out through the cracks and creases of the man's weathered face if he should fail to consciously contain it for a moment. It was faint and distantly familiar to Andy- the same sentiment his football coach had looked on the team with after several hard-fought and grueling defeats. Between the tirades on mistakes made and the verbal kicks in the rump, there was that sentiment that would creep through- _pride._

In that moment, Andy recognized the gravity of the moment for TP-6045. O'Shae was recognizing in them a sense of unity- _espri de corps_ \- and he would test it to its limits, which translated into no relief.

The Tangle was to be the tool of the unit's annealing.

" _It's gonna be a long fecking day for you, laddy!"_ , O'Shae promised, " _SECOND ROW UP!"_

As boots again skidded and squealed on logs, a single voice sang out.-

 _"Training Sergeant O'Shae, I did it, sir!"_

Andy's blood curdled.

It was a combination of what he saw and what he heard that simultaneously made his heart leap into his throat.

It was watching the faint hints of pride vanish from O'Shae's face, and recognizing the voice that had done it as Cedric's.

Things were about to get worse.

 _"Well, Beckham, that's mighty white of you!"_ , O'Shae said, passing through the rows of recruit trainees like the proverbial hot blade through butter on his way to Collins, " _Steppin' forward to save the platoon. Y're our savior, lad! Our own personal Jesus Christ! Only hear this, sonny Jim-."_

Cedric and O'Shae were behind Andy, well out of his field of peripheral vision and he dared not turn to see. In truth he did not have to. He could feel O'Shae standing in close, as though wanting to hop into Cedric's shirt pocket, the way he had to almost every recruit trainee at one point or another. More tangible though was the intensity O'Shae was radiating, which Andy could feel perfectly from where he stood.

" _-Old O'Shae sees and knows all at Falkirk! Oh, I know ya could'a pulled it all t'gether- but ye just ain't that bright or underhanded to a'thought it up yourself! AIN'T THAT RIGHT, AUNT MOGGIE?!"_

 _"YES, SIR!"_

 _"So, Beckham-."_ , O'Shae continued- Andy feeling him winding up for the gut punch, " _Gonna sacrifice yourself for the platoon, eh? Good on ye, boy-o! Only remember this- Christ didn't get tacked up alone, did he?"_

 _"NO, SIR!"_

 _"Then who shall it be? Eh? -Since y're so good at the tough decisions-."_

Andy could feel the tension in the silence. Cedric had learned the error of his ways, though for all practical purposes it was too late.

" _Not a thought on it, eh, savior? Well, let's see-. Where'd ya be without yer shadow, eh? Not-Beckham, fall out!"_

" _Yes, sir!"_ , Andy blurted out as he left the safety of numbers of his row for the flank of the platoon's formation.

 _"An' we're gonna need a thief, aren' we?"_ , O'Shae asked, " _Aunt Moggie, get yer ass over there with Beckham's shadow!"_

" _Yes, sir!"_

Andy found himself joined quickly by Cattermole whose expression was at least as bleak and easily twice as bitter as the way Andy felt. O'Shae was marching Cedric out of the ranks by this time as those left behind gave nervous sideways glances in anticipation of what would happen next.

 _"Smile, lads-!",_ O'Shae said brightly to the three, " _Y're about to redeem all mankind's wickedness! Arms out!"_

As the three hesitated for a moment, unsure of the meaning of the direction, O'Shae erupted at them.-

" _Damn ye feckin' Protestants! Ain't ye never seen a cross? Arms out!"_

Three sets of arms went out at right angles from three bodies in a mock display of crucifixion.

O'Shae examined the scene with contentment and said, " _Now isn't that fitting? Eh? And in your sacrifice, you've made the rest of the platoon free- to run The Tangle. I wash my hands'a the three of ya."_

 _"THIRD ROW, UP!"_

 **ASC Salvador Base**

Lyle awoke abruptly- so much so that the transition from dream to waking was sharp and jarring.

Normally he was not one quick to rouse and for that reason had all his adult (and particularly military career) life set his alarm clocks to go off with enough time to be able to hit the snooze bar twice. Once up and with the assistance of his preferred recipe for coffee that Winters had once likened to dirty motor oil left for years in a tool shed, he was crisp and lucid- but it was the getting up part that was always the toughest.

That was except for those rare occasions of which this was one.

The odd thing was, as he tumbled out of the hammock he had slung up in an empty space of the VC-33's cargo bay, the dream he could still remember clearly. He had been at his boyhood home outside a town in Oklahoma too far from anything remarkable to be worth mentioning. It had been a real event with the family cat, Topaz, who was good for little, but making kittens and knowing when they were in trouble. On this particular occasion Lyle remembered from both actual memory and recollection of the dream- her kittens had happened upon another protective mother of nature, a rattler of nearly a meter and a half in length, and her nest. By the end of the encounter, a large rattler was dead (Lyle, being young at the time vividly remembered being worried for the fate of the baby snakes) and three kittens would be watched over more carefully for the next two weeks.

What Lyle had never worked out in his mind, even years later when the thought had crossed it, was how exactly Topaz had known of the danger to her kittens. Her custom was to hunt and harass smaller, less lethal creatures in a scrub-overrun lot further down the road. Still, somehow she had known.

Lyle had never understood the workings of the intangible, protective mother instinct until this moment.

 _His_ babies were in danger.

Lyle felt that as strongly as he had felt anything before. He felt it as the images of Topaz gnawing off the rattler's head at the base of its broad, flat skull still were flashing through his brain. That was why he went for "Mr. Winchester", leaning loaded but safetied against a frame within arm's length of his hammock, instead of the heap his utility coveralls had formed where he'd dropped them. Boxer shorts, sweat and cigarette smoke stained T-shirt, and shotgun- Lyle charged down the rear ramp of the cargo plane onto the concrete of the tarmac, still warm from the previous day's heat.

Lyle's first glance across the tarmac to where the Valkyries of Knight Hawk and Vigilante Squadrons stood in staggered formation nearly made the plane captain feel foolish. No smoke, no fire, not even a rattler to be seen as a threat. Then Lyle's mind adapted its definition of a rattler, and the scene became clearer.

His reduced maintenance crew, the three former Zentraedi warriors turned RDF Valkyrie maintenance technicians, Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim stood anchored in place with their backs to the fighters, regaining much of their warrior's appearance, and facing off with twice as many humans ( _armed_ humans) in ASC uniform.

Lyle was running toward the stand-off before he had really considered what he would do when he got there, he was more aware of the feeling of coarse, warm concrete under his bare feet as he ran. The sound of his footfalls caught the attention of one of the ASC personnel who had in tow a hand cart commonly used for shuttling tools and equipment around hangars. The sound of Lyle's approach drew his attention, but the sight of the shotgun secured it. He let out a call of warning to the others in his party and before Lyle had come to a complete stop fifteen meters off with the shotgun at his shoulder, he was staring down the barrels of four ASC sidearms.

"Howdy!", Lyle said, mustering an amicable tone to his voice despite the galloping of his own heart, "We got some kind'a miscommunication here?"

The ranking ASC technician- Lyle could see by the patches on their coveralls that they were aircraft technicians- a lieutenant, said from behind a first sergeant and his pistol, "No miscommunication, Sergeant, except with your ground crew. We have orders from the JOC to install data link modules onto your communications gear to make your units more interoperable with our C2. Your thick-headed dittos here don't seem to want to let us do our work."

"Yeah?", Lyle asked, keeping the muzzle of his shotgun pointed dead center at the cluster of ASC, "They ain't so thick-headed as you, pard'. They know regs well `nough to know that ain't no changes made to an RDF airframe configuration without an ACCI-72-. `N no changes're made to _mah_ aircraft without _mah_ supervision."

"Except you're under joint-operational command…."

Lyle didn't take his eyes from the men pointing firearms back at him. He didn't have to in order to recognize Mathias's voice with its thick Yankee accent. _Asshole._

Mathias, and his executive officer Giermo joined the other ASC personnel, casually strolling up from where they had been observing the unfolding confrontation. It did not escape Lyle's attention that both men were also armed, and their pistols were in-hand and at their sides.

"-And that changes things a little.", Mathias continued, "Stand your men down, Sergeant, and let's not make a scene."

Lyle replied, sounding amused as if by a mildly funny joke, "Pardon me `n mah French, Colonel, but far as _Ah'm_ concerned, that changes _Jacques Merde._ Ain't no one puttin' nothin' in those planes without mah approval `n mah supervision."

"Then consider", Mathias suggested, "that you've got four guns pointed your way."

"`N you got one barrel of triple-ot buck pointed `n yers.", Lyle replied, "`N if we're gonna play O.K. Corral here, _Ah'm_ callin' Doc Holiday…"

Winters wasn't sure who it had been who had jostled him into a state of semi-consciousness, but in that hazy, transitional area he was aware of a soft, but distinct rattling. His body wanted nothing more than to slip back into a deep slumber in hopes that enough bourbon had leeched from him to allow REM sleep to occur, but some cognitive pocket of his brain had fixated on the sound that was not unlike that of the flies that would get trapped within the High Desert Pilot's Social Club and would beat themselves silly trying to escape through the rusting screen mesh of the doors. This rattle was similar, but not similar enough to allow his mind to dismiss it. It was a solid, but rapidly diminishing vibration of a solid on a solid.

A distant, hollow, _thud_ gave Winters a shove even through the padding of his bed's mattress and set the bad, framed art print on the wall of his quarters as well as the glass in the window pane rattling again like the sound of fly wings on metal screen mesh.

" _Mortar._ ", escaped the pilot's lips, before he was aware of saying it as though his subconscious was speaking to him.

Then the general alarm siren began to wail from speakers across Salvador Base.

A low, bass moan rose quickly and powerfully into a shrill, ear-piercing wail that snapped Winters rudely into full consciousness. His head was scarcely raised from his pillow before the detonation of two additional mortar rounds, and then a third shook the BOQ with their closer impacts.

Winters found himself half in his flight suit and jamming his feet into his boots when a powerful pounding on his door startled him enough to tumble him off the edge of the bed.

" _JACK!"_ , came Dalton's voice as the door swung inward.

 _How in the hell was he up and about so quickly?_

The door seemed to be blown inward, perhaps thrown open by Dalton or perhaps by the concussion of mortar rounds which were now falling at shorter intervals, and closer. In either case, the XO was in the room and helping Winters back onto the corner of his bed even as he finally got his right foot into the boot he'd been at odds with.

Figures and voices flashed by the open door in full-out runs, the sounds rising and fading under the constant warning din of the base's alarms. Winters, despite all that was going on, somehow managed to recognize some of the voices as either his pilots or as the Vigilantes.

Dalton, only slightly more dressed, urged him on, " _C'mon, Jack! We're under attack!"_

Winters felt his left foot go snugly home into his boot as he rose in the same motion, " _Do you think?.."_

Dalton was out the door, and Winters not more than two paces behind when while cinching his belt, he noticed his right hip feeling oddly light. It was odd only in that with all that was going on around him that the absence of his revolver should capture his attention, but it did and it felt somehow important. A quick glance found it where he had placed it, on the bed stand.

 _"JACK!"_ , came Dalton's urging again.

Winters snatched the pistol up and was out the door after his executive officer without another word, joining the torrent of pilots rushing to the tarmac.

The sound of incoming mortar fire had been joined now by the patter of automatic weapons in the distant reaches of the base, but in all directions. Whether the fire was from the unseen aggressors or the defenders- it was on all sides.

Smoke was rising from all parts of Salvador base, illuminated to stand out from the dark morning sky that was just beginning to lighten in the east by the glow of fires set by mortar impacts. The harsh smell of smoke and explosives residue was already beginning to permeate the prevailing musty dank of the humid jungle air. Mortar rounds continued to rip the air in their freefalls and shake the ground as their bombs were delivered on targets unseen to those who ran about on their way to their posts.

Winters was often amazed how moments like this suddenly returned him to the sprinting abilities he'd had at RAF basic training many years before. It was all adrenaline, and he knew he would be paying for the brief revisit to youth soon, but each long stride toward his fighter in Dalton's wake was one stride closer to the relative safety of the air.

It was in rounding the corner of an ASC HAS that the wind of regained youth left Winters' sails. An air of confusion hung over the piling mass of arriving pilots who surrounded the cause of the commotion.

A half dozen ASC personnel whom Winters had never seen before, plus two officers whom he'd seen far too much for his liking, were standing off with weapons drawn against Lyle who stood a short distance off in a perfect marksman's stance with his old, brutish Winchester shotgun at the ready. Lyle's crew, unarmed but no less imposing than the scatter gun toting plane captain, stood like a buffer of blue muscle and renewed warrior's attitude between the ASC personnel and the first line of Valkyries on the tarmac.

Winters waded quickly through the massing pilots to find Mumuni at the forefront of the RDF presence and engaged in a dialogue with Mathias that was fragmented to Winters by the timing of his arrival. Numbed or indifferent to the obvious danger of doing so, Winters simply strode at Mathias, feeling his blood heat with every step. He was unsure of what was happening, but Mathias was involved and that was enough to allow Winters to judge which side he would stand with firmly.

"What the hell is going on?", Winters demanded as Mathias's attention shifted from Mumuni to him.

Mortar rounds were still falling, one near enough to show Winters an ascending cloud of debris beyond the furthest HAS on the tarmac, but both he and Mathias were oblivious to the implications of this.

"Your goddamn man's drawing a weapon down on superiors for one.", Mathias replied, "And he's gonna get a real nice stay in our stockade for it."

" _Officers_ ", Winters corrected, "but not _superiors_ by my judgment. – _Lyle!-_ what's going on here?"

From out of Winters' field of view, Lyle replied, "They's tryin' ta make a few alterations that Ah weren't privy to- `n it weren't happenin' on mah watch."

Mathias nodded toward the cart that was at the center of the ASC cluster, "Communications upgrade- that's all. Nothing to make a stink over."

"Okay, let's have a look.", Winters said as the ground quivered with the fall of another mortar. Rifle fire was sounding nearer, within several hundred meters meaning the perimeter fence nearest to the flight line.

"What?", Mathias asked, seeming shocked by Winters apparent compliance.

"Let's see what you were going to put into our kites.", Winters said.

"Hardly the time now-.", Mathias said, clearly back-pedaling.

Winters felt Mathias cross his threshold for bullshit and everything else going on around him seemed to melt away, " _Oh_ , this is the _ideal_ time, Mathias- let's have a look."

"You're insane-.", Mathias laughed.

Before he was finished laughing, and with a flicker of chromed steel in the wash of the floodlights, Mathias found himself staring down the barrel of Winters' .44 revolver. Two pistols that had been pointing toward Lyle until this point shifted toward Winters as sidearms were drawn by pilots and directed toward the ASC.

"You and me and the Devil makes three.", Winters said as the revolver's cylinder rotated a loaded chamber into position under the cocked hammer with a heavy click.

Beads of sweat, small but distinguishable in the harsh light, formed quickly along Mathias's hairline as the realization that the situation was no longer in his control struck him soundly. Much to Winters' disappointment though, Mathias's fighter pilot's cool nerve prevailed and he retained his composure.

"You really want to do this now, Winters?"

"More than you can know.", Winters replied evenly as the pistol's muzzle hovered centimeters from Mathias's face, "It saddens me to tarnish Wang's memory though by giving you both two things in common- this gun and a bullet out of it."

"Jack, put the gun down."

Winters vaguely recognized the voice as Mumuni's, and more distantly recognized her authority over him.

Dalton's repeating of the instruction brought it home a little more- he was putting himself into a corner he was not going to be able to get out of. There were other ways.

"C'mon, Jack- put it down- we've got enough people trying to kill us right now without us going at each other."

Mumuni stood in between Winters and Mathias, saying to the ASC lieutenant colonel, "Everyone puts their gun down and we start seeing to our jobs, or we just start shooting now. Which is it going to be?"

Mathias motioned to his subordinates who lowered their weapons without taking his eyes off the bore of Winters' pistol.

"Colonel?", Mathias asked, having regained his cool.

Winters lowered his revolver, thumbing the hammer forward as he did so.

Mathias motioned his men off to their assigned duties, saying to Winters directly as he followed them, "We'll pick this up later, Colonel Winters-."

"Most definitely.", Winters agreed before Mathias was out of earshot and in a jog toward his squadron's flight prep building.

The frozen progress of RDF pilots thawed suddenly and began to flow under the build-up of the situation's pressure. All seemed keenly aware again that an attack was underway beyond the immediate distraction of the interrupted stand-off.

Mumuni had started toward the flight prep building her squadron had been assigned to when Winters caught her by the arm.

"My squadron is _not_ coming back to this base."

"What?"

"We're not coming back.", Winters repeated, undisturbed by the explosion of a mortar that sounded as though it was right off the flight line, "We're through here."

Mumuni looked for a moment as though she was ready to argue orders with him, but the resolve vanished with the deeper realization that the next time it came to butting heads, someone was likely to die. Instead of arguing she nodded.

"Get your support staff out on the transports, and I'll see to mine. Leave anything that can't be loaded quickly and discretely. Understood?"

"Absolutely.", Winters said, "Watch yourself up there- God knows what Mathias is likely to try."

Mumuni nodded again. Another mortar round detonated and signaled for the two officers to separate.

As Mumuni departed, Winters looked around for Lyle and found that he'd joined him, seemingly unfazed by all that had occurred.

"We're goin'?", Lyle asked.

"Yes.", Winters said, "Enough of this place-. Get whatever mixed bag you can on the birds for air and ground work, and then see to getting your crate in order to fly. Pass the word on to Goodson that we shall be departing abruptly at some point on my signal. Be ready."

"What signal?", Lyle asked.

"You'll know.", Dalton assured him, never having left Winters' side.

" _Aw sheeyt…_ ", Lyle muttered, knowing that he would.

"And put on some clothes for Christ's sake!", Winters called back as he bolted, eighteen again, for the flight prep building to suit up, "You look ridiculous running about in your knickers!"

" _Get those fucking tanks up now and form a line here! MOVE!"_

Normally firm but soft-spoken, unusual circumstances called for abnormal behavior from Captain Mateo Martorell, Army of the Southern Cross, 43rd Infantry, 6th "Blood Letters" Division. The attack on the base, rare in itself given the size and garrison strength of Salvador, had been limited so far to mortar fire on the barracks areas and to a lesser extent on the motor pools and flight line, but that could change quickly with a shrewd change in tactics made by an unseen Zentraedi commander. Salvador had kilometers of fence line to defend and by comparison a limited number of first string combat troops to do it with. While the direction of attack from mortar fire was fairly clear, there was no real telling as to where a ground assault- if Salvador was to have to defend against one as many ASC bases in the Control Zone had reported in the past quarter of an hour- might come from. Until the threat became clear, the defense had to remain fluid- and consequently thin in all areas.

Thin did not mean weak however.

Martorell was a field grade commander and believed commanding from the front earnestly. Gator Company had seen its share, and taken a share from many other companies, of combat operations in its two years at Salvador- and with Martorell at the head (figuratively and literally) for all of them. Combat had steeled the nerves of his troops and taught them the enemy's character in combat. Pound for pound, Capt. Martorell would have put any of his troops as equals with the most seasoned Zentraedi warrior. In small unit actions, offensive and defensive, the Gotors had proven themselves as hands-down superiors.

Fighting prowess was somewhat less of an issue though when one's enemy did not present himself to fight, and could be a moot point if the enemy could bring overwhelming power to bear quickly on a hastily erected defense.

Martorell knew these factors well and had seen them come into play in battles that had become synonymous with brutality.

For every factor there was an equalizer though.

The equalizing force of superior firepower growled in column into position as directed by Martorell. As much of the ASC was still, the armor contingent of Salvador was a hodge-podge of aging surplus from varying armies of the pre-Unification world. A case in point were the NATO staples of armor, two German Leopard II, and two America, M1-A2 "Abrhams" main battle tanks. Military planners had always envisioned these two monsters of steel and composite armor sharing the same side of a battlefield, but not likely the field they shared now. They had been designed in a time when the scope of "threats" were narrower. A testimonial to their designed versatility and continued relevance on the battlefield (though as with almost every change of the preceding century in military technology, the rise of the Zentraedi threat had caused some to proclaim the tank's usefulness at an end) the basic attributes of these aging warriors still had application.

The deep growl of the Leopards' massive turbo-diesel engines nearly drowned out the whine of the Abrhams' gas turbines as they formed a line abreast facing the unseen threat beyond the tree line some two hundred meters distant. Smoothbore main guns loaded with shotgun shell-like canister shot leveled and swiveled at the forest seeking a target through thermal-imaging gun sight eyes.

Following on, two Mk-7 IFVs with their turret-mounted 30mm chain guns and 14.7mm coaxial machineguns pulled into supporting positions along with ASC land rovers bearing either rapid-fire grenade launchers or heavy machinegun mounts. The lighter land rovers had scarcely rolled to a stop when Martorell's troops began to erect defilade of hastily filled sandbags and sheets of plate steel before them. For all intents and purposes, the land rovers in their defensive posture had lost their mobility in favor of becoming gun platforms and islands of protection for Gator Company. The tanks and IFVs brought adequate protection to the table by virtue of their design- the troops prudently recognized that the land rovers would require some augmentation.

As NCOs and enlisted rushed combat supplies from a truck concealed behind a storage building forward to the defensive position, Martorell watched the elements around him gel. Given his explicit orders concerning the storage units he was defending, he was certain that more men would soon arrive to support him, but for now he would have to assume that Gator Company would have to defend the warehouses alone and at all costs.

A portable field radar had been rolled into position to the rear of the tanks, and its crew was hurriedly raising its mast to bring it on line. Once activated, they would be able to trace any enemy mortar fire back to its origin and thereby be able to direct counter-battery fire from ASC artillery.

If, that was, there were any operable fire bases left in the Salvador area. If the breadth and intensity of action at other posts was any indication of the Zentraedi activity in the sector as a whole- it was possible that the smaller fire bases could have already been overrun.

"If we're lucky, their forward observers will shift fire onto us and leave the base's center alone.", Martorell thought aloud, heard by his executive officer, Lt. Morris.

Morris, a dark-haired, fair-skinned woman whose European origin was from areas far further north than Martorell's Spanish blood had been a reliable executive officer to the captain since before Gator Company had rotated to Salvador.

"You've always had a funny sense of _luck_ there, Cap'.", Morris laughed as she continued to direct the movement of supplies into position.

"If we can keep the mortar fire off the airfield long enough to get some gunships up-.", Martorell said speculatively, " _Yeah,_ that might even be worth the initial pounding."

Morris glanced back at the warehouse complex that her company was charged with defending, "All that dirty work-. Damn shame if we were to lose it now."

Martorell shook his head, agreeing in a dark way, "The things we do to pay the bills around here-."

"Cap'n!.", called the specialist leading the field radar team, "Radar's up!"

Martorell adjusted the weight of his rifle strap on his shoulder as he said to Morris, "Tell the CP we're in position and standing by."

"Yes sir."

The concrete-slab tarmac still quivered with the aftershock of a mortar round whose detonation had been powerful and close enough to seem to threaten to lift the flight prep building off its foundation. A billow of smoke and dust was rolling slowly across the flight line in the negligible wind as the pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron (some still finding their way into flight gear) exploded out onto the tarmac at a full gallop.

As Lt Col Winters did his best to brush fine shards of glass out of his hair from the bursting of a florescent light tube in the flight prep building, he was relieved to find that all of the vibration through the ground was not from incoming ordinance. The sweet, angelic song of Valkyrie engines idling filled his ears as he turned toward his aircraft.

The Vigilantes, Col Mumuni in the lead was rushing from their flight prep building as well, and to Winters' pilot's deep-rooted competitive sense of relief, the other squadron was looking just as rattled by the incoming indirect fire as the Knight Hawks.

Somehow though, the RDF personnel most exposed to the mortar fire appeared to be the ones working most unperturbed. The ground crews transferred to support Operation Back Step swarmed amongst and around the Valkyries, mostly performing the last moment tasks of ordinance loading and spot checks even as the whistling of mortar rounds split the air. For the aircraft of Knight Hawk Squadron, Lyle presided over the frenzy of multiple activities like the conductor of a full-contact symphony. Rapid hand gestures to airmen experienced enough to know to look for them and shouts through cupped hands kept activities productive even if they looked disorganized.

Winters shouted Lyle's name at the moment that a mortar round impacted the tarmac some thirty meters behind him. The concussion of the blast separated the colonel's boot soles from the concrete and though the explosion shocked his eardrums, he was certain he heard the whiz of shrapnel pass his ear.

Lyle had heard him somehow and beckoned the pilots on toward their aircraft with urgency. His expression was intent as if his concentration alone was providing a shielding umbrella for the earthbound fighters, and that he would not be able to maintain if for long.

"Y're good!", Lyle yelled into Winters' ear, "Now geyt!"

Ordinance shuttling carts were being rolled clear of the Valkyries even as Lyle pushed Winters on to the ladder of his fighter with a palm in the small of his back. Three airmen, just off the port wing of Preacher's fighter, _Loki_ , were carrying a fourth toward the cover of a HAS by wrists and ankles.

Lyle saw Winters catch sight of this as he was half-way up the ladder and assured him, "He's fine! Took a hit'n the calf that knocked `im off the plane! Now geyt up there `n stop those bastards from shootin' at us!"

Winters found himself in the cockpit and securing his harness straps as Lyle connected the interface cables and air hoses to his suit.

"Are you set to go?", Winters asked as a quick glance over the displays in the console before him revealed that all of _Marilyn'_ s systems were functioning nominally and that the fighter only awaited his command to go into action.

"Be gone in three shakes'v'a hound dog's tail.", Lyle assured him, " _Helmet!_ "

Winters recognized the weight of his helmet still in his lap and put it on even as Lyle snatched his away his leather wheel cap and swagger stick which Winters had no recollection of bringing out of the flight prep building with him.

"Ah'll take them-.", Lyle said.

There was movement across the tarmac as the first of Lt Col Mathias's Cavalier Squadron rolled out of their HASes in fully armed Specters. In the haze of smoke and dust Winters could not tell which aircraft was manned by the bane of his current existence, but the squadron as a whole was rolling rapidly toward the runway apron in an attempt to get airborne. Winters had no intention of still being on the ground when that happened, nor did he wish to lag behind the CTP-1 transports and ASC Lakota gunships and Aztec attack helicopters that were now rising from their respective areas behind the main flight line.

"Your crate and Goodson's flight-.", Winters instructed, "Orbit per Babble's instructions until you have word otherwise from me. We'll clean up here, make our break, and cover you on the way out."

"Sounds simple `nough.", Lyle laughed.

"So does brain surgery in principle.", Winters replied, "With any luck, Lyle, we'll be having drinks at Roxanna's tonight."

"Right before Butler shoots us.", Lyle said, dropping off the fighter's ladder.

"That too.", Winters said as he retracted the ladder and began to bring the canopy down.

As the other Valkyries around Winters buttoned up, he switched his radio to the ASC tower frequency.

"Babble, this is Knight Hawk Leader-. Request immediate clearance for squadron scramble vertical take-off. Over."

The voice on the other end of the radio was strained with fear though it was the airfield that had taken the vast majority of incoming mortar rounds.

"Knight Hawk Squadron is clear for VTO upon request. Good hunting."

Winters muttered under his breath, "You'll regret saying that.""

"Knight Hawk Leader, Babble-. Did not copy your last. Over."

"Nevermind.", Winters said clearly.

Winters flipped the Valkyrie's configuration control switch at his thumb on the throttle back into the middle setting as he eased the throttle forward. _Marilyn_ rose on a cushion of diverted thrust so the change to the hybrid fighter/robot Guardian mode could take place. The thruster nozzles, now doubling as feet for the odd-looking war machine, did not touch ground but rather balanced the Guardian on its own thrust with computer assistance. As winters applied more power and looked around, he saw that the other Knight Hawks and the Vigilantes as well were taking off in the same configuration.

A steady line of ASC fighters was rolling over the runway apron toward the base's runways where they took off by the section as soon as their noses were aligned with the far end of the concrete strip. Twin plumes of blue flame would stretch out from their engines' thruster nozzles showing that their afterburners had been lit and they would rocket down the runway and quickly achieve flight. Once airborne, unlike the Aztec attack helicopters and Lakota gunships that were rounding the base perimeter by section like greyhounds running the circuit of a track, the fighters climbed high and vanished from sight. Winters hoped that Mathias, and in seeing Mathias in the cockpit of every ASC fighter that went aloft- that all of the ASC pilots, would be able to set grudges aside in the face of the common threat. Still, he couldn't help but feel that a Mauser cannon shell would split him in half from behind at any moment.

The incoming mortar fire that had started sporadically and had seemed to land randomly around Salvador was now becoming more focused and concentrated. From the air, Winters could see the craters from mortar impacts still smoldering around the barracks and flight line areas. From above, it was clear that the Zentraedi understanding of Salvador Base's layout and in particular its critical areas was limited. Fire direction from spotters had been mediocre, and the resulting effect of the opening stages of the attack had been negligible at best beyond the shock value. The attack had clearly not been planned in advance and smacked more of a lashing out than a military operation with clear objectives.

Strange for the Zentraedi.

As poorly conceived as the attack was, true to the Zentraedi nature it was gaining the focus it initially lacked as it evolved. Mortar fire was shifting away from the interior and rear areas of the base, and now being directed against the runways and against the ASC defensive positions that were quickly being formed around the base. A flash would catch the pilot's eye followed by a puff of smoke and rain of debris that all seemed so gentle from 1,500 feet.

 _Seemed_ was not the reality of what was happening below though, Winters knew. This was reinforced as a section of Specters, beginning their dash for the air down one of Salvador's runways, lost the second to last aircraft in the procession to a mortar round. The shot could not have been intentional, Winters knew, mortars were far too imprecise a weapon for an experienced crew to even hope to use accurately on a moving target- but fortunes of combat sometimes operated in their favor.

Winters saw the Specter, with its broad wings and widely spaced engine nacelles shatter as though crushed under an enormous, invisible hammer. Before the fragments had scattered, the hurtling wreckage still propelled by the momentum the fighter had been building for take-off dissolved into a rolling ball of flame that looked as though it would overtake the leading pair of aircraft in the section. They escaped into the air as the fireball, now darkening from a brilliant to a black-marbled orange, and lost pace with them.

The second Specter in the pair of the one that had been lost to the mortar round was not as fortunate. The explosion of the Specter had jolted its wingman into an unrecoverable left skid, having lifted its right rear landing strut from contact with the runway. With only the two points of contact with the ground, the Specter veered sharply to the left, its nose and left wing dipping as the fireball ingested it. Whether it was the force of the secondary explosion of the first Specter overtaking the first, or if it was a wing clipping the ground at high speed- Winters could not tell, but the end result he saw clearly. The Specter toppled end over end, looking to Winters like a young girl learning to do cartwheels for the first time. One fireball became two as the toppling Specter disintegrated, and then the fireballs merged into one that rose high over the airfield and quickly dissipated.

Winters felt his stomach knot, or perhaps it had been knotting and he had not noticed as he had been absorbed by the horrific sight below. Any malice he had felt generally against the ASC pilots who were taking to the air had vanished in a tumbling inferno. Now he was just seeing pilots die.

"Babble, Knight Hawk Leader- Does anyone have eyes on that damn mortar positon?!"

"Knight Hawk Leader, Babble. Negative. Climb to angels twenty and orbit. Counter-battery fire missions are being called in."

"Time to clear out, Jack!", came Dalton's voice- edgy, and understandably so. Under any normal circumstances, it was a bad idea to occupy the airspace that artillery shells could soon be traveling through. As the RDF contingent had likely lost favor with Salvador's commander, General Braddock, being in the path of fire was doubly ill-advised.

Still, Winters felt the bite of being cut out of the retaliatory action. It would have to wait.

"Knight Hawks", Winters directed, "You heard the tower! Let's get our asses off the deck!"

A sharp and powerful _"CRACK!"_ sounded from just inside the treeline of Salvador Base's north perimeter. For the eyes of those in Gator Company, the sound had coincided with a flash and a puff of milky smoke- but mostly in the ranks of the ASC garrison, the explosion's sound and concussion that was felt in joints and teeth was the first real indication that there were Zentraedi across the line and that a clash was imminent.

As the white smoke filtered through the underbrush and lifted gently away on the soft currents of air that passed in the rain forest morning as wind, a great groan of straining wood and then the cracking of it rose from the darkness. A towering tree- one that moments earlier had been indistinguishable from any of the others that formed the dense canopy of old growth outside of the base- began to lean to, and then toppled in toward the base. The falling timber seemed to freeze mid-air for a moment as though in the pulse of photo strobes as a half dozen more explosions flashed through and rocked the treeline.

From his vantage point atop the deck and to the rear of one of the Leopard II battle tanks, Capt. Martorell saw the leap of electric blue arcs as the first falling tree bridged the three independent circuits of the base's outer perimeter fencing with its trunk in the process of crushing a section of all three. Each fence, charged to 10,000 volts in heightened defense conditions, sent a shower of sparks skyward like Roman candles as the electrified chain-link bulwarks crumpled as easily as had they been made of rice paper.

Artillery shells, counter-battery fire from supporting ASC fire bases kilometers away, shrieked by high overhead ripping the air on the plunge to suspected Zentraedi mortar positions identified by the field radar units. The passing of the shells had drown out the cracking of the second assault of trees on the fence line, but all eyes in Gator Company were directed that way now and saw as the only physical barrier between themselves and whatever Zentraedi force the wilderness contained was flattened mostly in a breach of nearly 150 meters.

Deep in the jungle, far back from the treeline, artillery shells from ASC pieces began to air burst within the canopy shredding all around and below with the shrapnel of their anti-personnel casings. It was as a plume of smoke and tattered plant debris rose over the forest with the deep boom of the exploding rounds that Martorell leapt down from the rear deck of the tank on which he had been standing.

No sooner had his boots touched down than the treeline erupted with the flash of automatic rifle fire. Like a vast swarm of fireflies, tracer rounds glowing with orange phosphorescence swept over the crushed fence line and converged on Gator Company's position. The air sang with hisses, pops, and zings as rifle rounds split the air, plowed into the ground, or ricocheted harmlessly off of armored vehicle hulls.

No order from Martorell was required to initiate return fire from Gator Company.

Waves of green tracers from ASC machine guns swept back through the oncoming waves of orange like the rip-tide of the firefight. The rapid crack from laser assault rifles nearly drown out the heavier clatter of the conventional MG-3 medium machineguns, but not quite the heavier, slower report of the M-2 mounts. One after the other, the four main battle tanks rocked violently back ans their main guns discharged, shocking eardrums of the troops around them and dealing a concussive blow that felt to each like being struck in the chest with a softball. Canister shot, a load of 1,000 tungsten steel balls each, bit great holes in the treeline and in those areas all return fire ceased.

Martorell pressed the handset of the company field radio to his head as the heavy clatter of the Mk-7 IFVs' chain guns joined into the fight saturating with heavy fire the gaps between the abscesses opened in the unseen enemy's ranks by the canister shot.

"CP, CP- this is Gator Actual-.", Martorell yelled into the phone, uncertain whether he was being heard. His ears still sang like sirens from the brutal assault of battle noise upon them. "North perimeter fence along the storage complex has been severely breached! Repeat, fence line has been breached and we are holding! Request gunship and air support for my position! Over."

"Gator Actual, CP.", replied the voice that seemed too calm to be involved in the same battle that Martorell found developing around him, "Gunships are currently engaged. Suggest maintaining concentrated direct fire while ground support squadrons rally. Stand by to spot for air strikes. Over."

"Maintain concentrated direct fire- _no shit!_ ", Martorell yelled back to the CP without the handset mike being open. He handed the receiver back to the coms specialist and looked for his executive officer. "Morris!-."

"Sir?!"

Morris was at Martorell's side in a moment, keeping below the cover of sand bags that had been hastily stacked and vehicles by moving in a low crouch.

Martorell squatted beside her and motioned vaguely in the direction of the breached fence line.

"Zero our mortars on the treeline.", Martorell instructed, "We'll get Arty to drop pot-shots into their rear, but I want to be able to put a curtain of steel right there where the woods open. If we can keep them back, keep `em from advancing, they might lose interest."

"Yes, sir!", Morris replied, "I'll get on-."

Martorell saw "it", the final word in Morris's sentence mouthed by his XO, but a loud hiss overtook the sound of it as a anti-tank rocket skimmed by overhead, barely missing the Leopard II tank that the officers were covering behind. The rocket passed harmlessly over the troops of Gator Company- some of whom may not have even seen its passing in their concentration- but did strike randomly the corner of a warehouse some sixty meters back beyond the position. The armor-piercing warhead shattered the sheet aluminum and steel framing, significantly flimsier material than it was designed to penetrate, scattering razor shards against the sides of surrounding warehouses loudly but otherwise harmlessly.

A primal roar of rage rolled over the lines of Gator Company, as powerful as any explosive concussion they had been subjected to. The sound came as though the jungle itself had reached its limits of absorbing the ASC's abuse, and was vocalizing its intent to retaliate. Certainly though, no soldier or officer on the line mistook the sound for anything but what it was- a battle cry.

An opening salvo of a dozen shoulder-fired rockets crossed the field between the treeline and Gator Company and in their wake, before the weapons had reached their targets, the jungle seemed to expel a solid wall of micron zed Zentraedi warriors advancing in mass.

The rockets struck home.

The salvo had not been intended to be any sort of battle-winning blow- even in their haste to constitute a defense; the ASC company had dug in too well to be dislodged by a handful of infantry-fired rockets. It had clearly been intended as a stunning blow, a punch to the nose that would have the defenders seeing stars for the critical seconds it would take to have an advance gain momentum across open ground.

Martorell had been aware of an anti-tank rocket striking high on the face of the Leopard II's gun turret. The ball of flame had rolled over and around the highly protected gun mount, which suffered no significant damage because of the protection afforded it by the composite armor system it had been provided.

The experience of the rocket impact _outside_ of the Leopard II was somewhat different though.

Martorell had seen the fireball rip around the side of the gun turret and had felt the intense heat and pressure as it swept over him, crushing both he, Morris, and a half dozen other Gator Company troops to the concrete with the force of the explosion. Martorell did not actually hear the blast, but became aware of an unwavering, shrill tone in his ears even as he smelled the thick, rubbery, burning odor of spent plastic explosives from the rocket's warhead, and the distinctly organic aroma of his and others' singed hair.

Hardening that came from dozens of other "major' battles and countless skirmishes allowed Martorell's mind to return to his core responsibilities. Getting back to his feet, if only to squat beside the Leopard II as it rocked back having discharged its main gun again and a deadly load of canister shot, the captain saw that his unit was returning fire already and doing so both cooperatively and cohesively.

Battle hardening did not allow him to overlook the fact that despite the singing of his ears that was a sign of permanent damage to his hearing that he and those directly around him had been lucky.

A Mk-7 IFV, six meters directly to the right of the Leopard II was billowing smoke from sprung hatches that had been blown when a rocket had struck the vehicle dead-on. Unlike the tank, the IFV had no sophisticated composite armor to give it resistance to a shaped-charge warhead. Only a hull of dense aircraft aluminum provided the crew protection from small arms and cannon fire. Its shortcomings were known, but the evidence was more brutal in its clarity. Martorell felt a twinge in his gut at the sight of the Mk-7 burning, its chain gun gone silent, as he knew by face if not by name every member of Salvador's armored contingent.

It was in the dancing light of illuminating flares that Martorell caught glimpses of what cut the deepest as a commander. Gator Company medics were moving swiftly through the front lines of the defensive position, and regrettably were finding much to do. Not all of the rockets fired at the position by the rogue Zentraedi had been of the anti-tank variety. Anti-personnel rounds had been fired into the mix indiscriminately and had unfortunately done their intended work. The agonized and terrified screams of the wounded, some with limbs gnawed away to pulpy, spurting stumps of mauled flesh and bone, were drowned out by Martorell's own internal siren wail.

The CO rose up far enough to peer over the deck of the Leopard II long enough to get a sense of the action. Murderous fire was pouring out onto the field from Gator Company's position, but the leading elements of Zentraedi had already closed half the distance. Bodies littered the ground- whole, but in many cases in pieces. Where defensive fire raked an area, the living warriors pressed into the ground were indistinguishable from their dead comrades until a jerk or twitch- the reaction to an injury- gave them away. When the sweep of fire would move away, or the intensity dwindle though, the warriors still able to move would rouse themselves as though mechanical and unafraid of the incoming fire, and surge forward again until the next wave of the defenders' fire forced them to the ground again.

To a human, the level of mounting carnage in the Zentraedi ranks was appalling, and their ability to wade into it incomprehensible. Captain Martorell knew though that this level of combat discipline was born of battles with the Invid in which the loss of thousands in a single skirmish was not uncommon. Zentraedi, on the whole and especially in numbers, had the insufferable quality in an opponent of fearing military failure over fearing death. With their orders clearly being to overrun Gator Company's position, they would fight to carry out those orders if it meant being killed to the warrior.

From Martorell's vantage point, the Zentraedi were clearly on their way to exactly that end- but for every warrior cut down along the advancing edge, another would appear from the treeline in the rear to replace him. If the aliens could ber up under the rate of attrition that the ASC was dealing out, the volume of flesh would eventually overwhelm the volume of fire.

Martorell grabbed Lt. Morris by the strap to her helmet at her left cheek and turned her head to face him. She likely was also deprived of her hearing at the moment, but would be able to see the words his mouth was forming.

" _We need air support, NOW!"_

 **The Amazon River Basin**

Lt. Whilite could hear the distant sounds of helicopter rotarblades slashing the air. The direction from which the helicopters were coming was unclear because of the distorting acoustics of the jungle and because of the approach pattern that the pilots would be flying. Still, the sound meant that Echo Company, 3rd Platoon was only minutes from being free of the jungle. It also meant, Whilite knew, that other ears were hearing the same sounds too and would be looking for the source.

Common sense dictated that it would not be a good idea for the choppers to be stationary long enough for the owners of those other ears to find them.

Sergeant Byerly appeared with a rustle of jungle undergrowth, rushing in a crouched sprint up the small rise to where the rest of the platoon had taken position. A moment before the two privates from her squad whom she had chosen to assist her in the detail had appeared with as much haste also.

Byerly half-leapt the crest of the rise and skidded to a stop on her hip on the bed of fallen leaves, coming to a stop beside Whilite.

"Area clear, El-Tee.", Byerly said, "Charges are set."

Whilite nodded and cupped his hand over the mike to his radio headset, "Reach-Back, Reach-Back- Echo Three Actual. How do you copy? Over."

The reply came calmly- a woman's voice abraded slightly by the patter of helicopter blades and the high whine of turbine engines, "Echo Three Actual, Reach-Back. I read you five by five. Reach-Back flight is two kilometers out from rendezvous co-ordinates. Are you set to clear your EZ? Over."

"We're set. Over."

"Open a hole then, Three Actual, and we'll fish you out. Over."

"Roger that.", Whilite said, "Keep your eyes peeled for our smoke. Over."

Whilite nodded to Byerly who lifted her head just enough to do a final, quick head count of the Rangers in her platoon.

"Cover! Fire in the hole!"

The sergeant closed the safety switch on the grip-stick remote detonator she was holding and depressed the firing trigger. Clearing charges; pre-packed nylon belts with explosive shaped-charges designed especially to cut through tree trunks up to 60cm thick, went off at the bases of half a dozen trees along the stream that had served as 3rd Platoon's last rallying point and defensive position. The choice of locations for clearing an extraction zone had been fairly simple- the area around the stream provided a natural opening in the forest that only had to be broadened.

The sharp crack of the six charges sounded in rapid, almost indistinguishable succession. Birds, hidden within the canopy of the mined trees and those around them exploded outward into the air in rush of flapping wings and shrill cries of alarm. The six trees then tumbled in on the forest, their bases cut out from under them, falling with the gristly crack of branches in the canopy- having worked themselves into a lattice-work of growth- snapped apart, creating a shower of torn leaves and broken boughs.

As the white smoke of expended plastic explosive thinned and carried off into the jungle, a crude, 20-meter ring in the canopy showed the blue sky and high, white clouds of early morning.

"We've got you, Three Actual.", Reach-Back announced, "We're sending our med-evac bird in. Stand-by to receive stretcher baskets. Over."

"Copy that. Over", replied Whilite who then motioned Byerly into action.

The sergeant pointed to two squads and with a flurry of hand motions, ordered, "Covering positions! Move the wounded up!"

Between the two squads moving into perimeter defensive positions and the balance of the platoon that carried or moved with the wounded, the Rangers swept down the rise into the newly cut clearing. All were aware that the clock was now running without dispute. The sound of the clearing charges could have carried as far as three kilometers, even in the dense rain forest. Also, extracting the platoon would mean that the helicopters would have to loiter in an orbit of the EZ while one by one the slicks brought the Rangers up by hoist cable. The winch could bring up a squad at a time, each soldier attached to the line by their harness, but there were four squads to extract. The wounded, who would go first, could only be taken out one at a time and would take as much time as the rest of the platoon. All the while, the choppers would be stationary. Listeners would be able to determine direction if nothing else.

As Whilite reached the EZ, a flight of four Aztec attack choppers zipped by just over the canopy. It was not unheard of for extraction missions to bring air cover in the form of attack choppers- but as a second flight followed the first- this one veering east whereas the first had clearly gone west, Whilite began to develop an uneasy feeling that there was more in play within The Control Zone than what was affecting 3rd Platoon, or even Echo Company directly.

The comparatively fat body of a Lakota dust-off appeared over the jugle threshold, sliding slowly, sideways into position and flattening the newly exposed undergrowth with rotor wash. The belly had the customary red cross painted onto a small field of white- indicating its role as a medical ship and not a combatant. The marking was probably more for the psychological benefit of the wounded than for any practical defense the design offered the Lakota as Zentraedi were notoriously indifferent to these birds of mercy.

Whilite saw the winch arm rigged out on the Lakota's starboard side, and as it found a comfortable place to hover, the stretcher basket quickly was swung out and lowered. By this time, Doc Lancing had assumed direction of the activities in the EZ. The basket had scarcely touched ground when two privates, under the medic's direction, had the restraining bars of the basket open and were situating the worst of the wounded into it. The moment the bars were closed and locked, Lancing made a motion to the Lakota's crew chief, forty meters above, who began to draw in the winch cable. The basket and the Ranger inside rose like an express elevator to salvation and as the stretcher was taken into the Lakota at the end of its ascent, an empty basket was attached and lowered to repeat the process.

Whilite knelt on one knee with Byerly, nearby to where Lancing oversaw the extraction of the wounded. Whilite's attention was drawn mostly outward though, scanning over half of the crudely circular perimeter that was being covered by the balance of 3rd Platoon, while Byerly watched the other. Between Lancing and the crew of the dust-off, the wounded were being removed quickly- more quickly than Whilite had expected- but it still felt like an eternity. Not just an eternity, but an eternity in which Whilite grimly expected in the deep shadows of his mind that every Zentraedi in a ten kilometer radius would descend upon his position.

It did not happen though.

It did not happen as Doc Lancing secured her own harness to the end of the wire carrying out the last of the wounded.

Nor did it happen as the first "slick" moved into position and dropped a cable to which all of 2nd Squad attached itself quickly and was whisked up out of and over the trees as the Lakota pilot put on altitude and velocity to make himself less of a target. As Whilite watched, he was reminded by the Rangers vanishing out of the portal in the treetops of a large mouth bass breaking the surface of a lake at the end of a fishing line. Only this was what it would look like from below- and of course, if bass looked like Rangers.

Third Squad went as quickly and easily as 2nd, as did 4th- though in the extraction of 4th Squad- a private, and Whilite could not tell who, could not resist from belting out a defiant "rebel yell" as his air chariot whisked him away. Whilite found himself grinning, though a laugh would not come from his tight chest that barely contained his pounding heart as the sound faded into the rotor wash.

" _YEEEEEE-HAAAAAAaaaawwww!"_

"Done this before, El-Tee?", Byerly asked as the final slick moved into place and dropped its line to them. It was an absurd question- they all had. Some just more than others.

Whilite attached the over-engineered hook to the ring in his battle harness and made sure it would not come free.

"Sure- in Ranger School."

Byerly checked to make sure that the rest of 1st Squad had attached and given her the nod of approval before she gave the thumbs-up to the crew chief above.

"Same thing now- only any shooting now will be real.", Byerly said as the slack went out of the line and Whilite felt a kick in the groin coincide with his feet coming free of the jungle floor.

"Hope you like heights!"

Whilite, of course, did not- and to see the forest drop away as though he was strapped to a rocket only made it worse. To fight the dizziness, Whilite looked up at the Lakota, which helped some as they said it would in Ranger School. Of course there was nothing to be done for the fact that he now had to pee as well. These were the things they didn't cover in training.

Fortunately for the lieutenant, the helicopter crew chief was diligent in quickly bringing in the winch line and with the assistance of other 3rd Platoon members, getting those extracted last aboard. The helicopter deck beneath Whilite's feet was unstable as the pilot transitioned from evasive, low altitude maneuvering to high-speed formation flying with the rest of his flight as they collectively put on altitude, but the deck was solid and therefore reassuring.

Whilite quickly pressed himself into an empty seat and tucked an arm through a shoulder harness. The display was not lost on Byerly who shook her head with a grin.

"All that went down last night, and a bumpy chopper ride still gives you the willies, huh, El-Tee?"

Whilite was blunt and unapologetic, "Shrapnel and bullet wounds have the possibility of being treated. I don't think Doc Lancing has anything in her bag for a thousand meter fall."

"Point taken.", Byerly said, then nodding toward the open door through which she and Whilite had just entered, said, "Check it out, El-Tee-."

Whilite looked out across the morning sky that was now well into daylight. Distantly, just over the horizon a dark shape moved in what after a few moments became clearly a circle. As the lumbering form completed a second orbit of some unseen, fixed point in the jungle, Whilite's suspicion of its identity was confirmed as the flicker of tracer fire poured out at a forty-five degree angle into the dense rain forest. It was an AC-130 gunship, never adopted by the Robotech Defense Forces, but rescued from the scrapper's torch and the mothballed U.S. Air Force inventory by the Army of the Southern Cross. Deemed by the RDF as too slow and vulnerable to be able to adequately support its concepts of rapid mobile warfare, the aged fleet with its standard armament of an M-61 20mm Vulcan cannon, a twin 40mm Bofors "pom-pom" gun whose design dated back to the anti-aircraft defense of World War II vintage battleships, and single 105mm howitzer, was embraced just as quickly by the ASC for the brutal effectiveness it still possessed in area saturation fire. "Area saturation fire" being the sanitized way of describing the ability to fling as much steel into a concentration of your enemy as possible- and the AC-130 the Rangers of 3rd Platoon were watching was busily at work at just that.

"Poor bastards.", Byerly said, sounding half-convincing, "Dittos or not, you almost have to feel sorry for `em. Almost."

As the Lakota's crew chief secured the winch, Whilite gave the young woman a tug on her safety harness that was tethered to an anchor point in the cabin ceiling.

"Chief- what's going on?"

Smoke was now rising in a thickening column from the otherwise non-descript area of jungle being hammered by the gunship. Smoke rose also from other points in the canopy too distant from the AC-130's attack to be related. It reminded Whilite of stories he had heard an uncle tell once of coal mines that caught fire and burned continuously through their veins- occasionally breaking through to the surface like Hell itself yawning wide.

"Gotta ask the Dittos, sir.", the crew chief replied with a shrug, "All was about normal until last night and then The Z got it in their minds to start a ruckus. No tellin' what got `em started."

Whilite nodded his understanding of the meager explanation from the NCO. _Why_ wasn't a particularly important question to anyone in an operational role. It didn't help you at all to see through the undergrowth or over a rise to spot an enemy laying in wait to shoot you. It didn't give you a usable tool to reason and placate your way out of a fight. _Why_ was for those who wore stars on their shoulders, Intel, and historians.

"They'll be glad to have you back at Conrad though-.", the crew chief added, almost as an afterthought, "Plenty of work left to do there."

"How do you mean?", Whilite asked, "What's going on at camp?"

The crew chief looked at the lieutenant as if to ask- _What, you don't know?_ It then probably occurred to her that she had just pulled the platoon from an operation in the jungle, and that the lieutenant was no more likely to know the past twelve hours of her life than she of his. Whilite dismissed it as the mental effects of adrenaline battling fatigue, as physically evident by the dark circles beneath the chief's eyes that were not quite dark enough to be glare-reducing face paint.

"Conrad's been getting hit every couple of hours, just like everybody else.", the crew chief explained, then realizing that the _just like everybody else_ meant nothing to the Ranger, continued, "RDF, ASC, civilian towns- everybody, but particularly ASC has been catching shit for twelve hours give or take. Conrad was okay when we lifted wheels to get you guys, but the attacks were getting more frequent and intense. A lot of mortar and small arms stuff, mainly. Some ASC posts are swimmin' in The Z- some have even got overrun."

"The Devil, you say-.", Byerly said, interested but distantly unconcerned.

"Well, anyway- _something's_ got their blood up.", concluded the chief, "That's what I can tell you. You kinda get to know how Custer felt."

"Custer picked that fight.", Byerly pointed out, being something of a well of historical facts.

"Who knows?", suggested Whilite, thumping for no good reason the stock of his M-35 on the chopper's deck, "Maybe so did we."

Whilite realized he was fidgeting with his rifle and stopped immediately as to be an example. It was a nervous habit that he had developed at some point and had only become recently aware of. It was, he thought, that it made the weapon feel sturdy and solid- worthy of confidence. And why not indulge in confidence in one of the principal tools of the trade.

It was likely he'd be using it again before the day was out.

 **Brasilia**

"This is bad.", Action Commander Kevtok thought aloud.

The Serhot-Ran officer lowered the field glasses he had just been using and handed them to Moyrt. All he had needed to see through them, he had seen. The greater picture required no optical assistance.

Columns of smoke were clearly rising from many areas of the micronian population center known as _Brasilia._ The city was still distant and lacked any fine details to the naked eye, but Kevtok knew the signs of battle and how to read them. Whatever was going on was still building toward a climax- the lines of control likely still very fluid. Though the city was easily two to three hours distant by foot, even making good time, this was the best chance to slip into the outskirts without detection.

Of course, the sight further along the road that Kevtok and his party had been paralleling told him that the micronians- the military portion of their society at least- was also aware that the urban unrest opened Brasilia to just that kind of exploitation. They were prepared to deter any approach along established transportation routes, and were likely deployed in skirmishing parties to intercept intruders along other paths of entry.

Moyrt raised the field glasses to his eyes, not stepping out from the brush that hugged the edge of the road any more than he had to in order to get a clear view. Across a broad dell and at the top of a hill directly to the south, the road was blocked by two vehicles of the same six-wheeled configuration, and a third. The third, massive vehicle rode on wheels that clearly rolled over a loop of self-laying track. It wasn't the vehicle's means of locomotion that drew Moyrt's interest, but the enormous gun barrel protruding from a sharply angled, rotating turret atop the vehicle.

Micronians could be seen moving on all three vehicles, posted on each at anti-personnel weapons of some type. Moyrt counted nine micronians- warriors clearly by their dress and body armor- between the three vehicles, and these supplemented the twenty or more moving about entrenched defensive positions to either side of the road.

Further, beyond the three vehicles blocking the road, a rectangular cordon of hazy blue light erected around four portable generating posts contained an assortment of marooned Zentraedi male and female warriors. Some sat, some milled about in small groups- but all were clearly being held, detained within the energy barricade by the micronians. Moyrt could not be certain of the circumstances that brought these warriors into detention, but he felt strongly to try to pass along this route would likely result in he and the rest of the party joining them- or worse.

"Let me see.", Hyra said, pulling the glasses from Moyrt's reluctantly surrendering fingers.

The glasses were at her eyes for a split second before she asked quietly, " _What is that?"_

Moyrt didn't have to ask which "that" she was referring to, "I don't know. An armored vehicle clearly."

"They call it a _tank_.", Diharon, the norghil warrior told them both, "It's slow and has limited mobility compared to a Regult, for instance, but the armor is tough- _very_ tough- and the guns of most can fire a round cleanly through even our power armor. I have seen it. That's probably why we've been walking for the past twenty minutes."

The party had been walking for some time since the wheeled cargo vehicle that they and seventeen others (five of whom had been human but who had paid little attention to the party of Serhot-Ran) had secured transport on for the trade of seized micronian wapons and packed into from the river landing for a three hour ride. The trip that had by agreement with the micronian operator and a male Zentraedi warrior who had somehow come to work with him had been for passage to within the city limits of Brasilia. The arrangement had clearly changed when the vehicle had come to a stop to allow the operator to speak with the operator of another vehicle coming from the other direction. The other vehicle had pulled away, but the transport ferrying the Serhot-Ran had not moved. Moments later, the male warrior working seditiously with the micronian had opened the gate at the rear of the vehicle and motioned all to dismount. No explanation was offered as he got back into the operator's compartment and the vehicle pulled away, doubling back on its own path.

There was a profound indignity to being put off by a norghil and a micronian, but in the quick way in which both the disembarked micronians and Zentraedi dispersed, there was a message to be read. Action Commander Kevtok had not been oblivious to that fact and had ordered the party to continue on a march along the road under natural cover, bringing them to where they were now.

Action Commander Kevtok, who had sunk into deep thought after handing his field glasses off to Moyrt now resurfaced and asked Diharon directly, "And you're certain that this Yeshta can be found in Brasilia?"

Diharon showed the stress of having a superior's critical decisions based on his words, but he spoke truthfully and confidently, "It is where I last heard him to be, Lord. And if there is to be some statement made to the micronian leadership about this uprising, then it will come from Yeshta, and it will be made here."

Kevtok nodded and then voiced his decision, "Then we have no choice but to infiltrate the city. I would prefer to have the cover of darkness, but we don't have the time to wait for nightfall-."

Moyrt had had a bad feeling when at Kevtok's command he and the other Serhot-Ran had tossed their rifles overboard on the rickety floating craft that had carried them out of the depths of the jungle. The decision had been a prudent one at the time, as the clearly Zentraedi design of the weapons would have caused the entire party to draw unwanted attention- but now-. Now, Moyrt would have given almost anything to have not had to watch his weapon vanish from sight into the murk of the river.

"Moyrt."

"Lord?", Moyrt replied instinctively before he was aware of replying.

"Take the point.", Kevtok instructed, "Move for evasion, and no noise."

"Yes, Lord.", Moyrt complied, brushing past Hyra whose eyes told him that she too was missing her weapon now.

"Fate help you.", Hyra offered.

"Don't need it.", Moyrt said smugly, " _It's me."_

Hyra snorted back a laugh, "Fate help _u_ s then."

 _Plaza Internacional_ , in the midst of the evaporation of the uneasy peace that had once characterized Brasilia, had become a massive crossroads for all of the activities common to a city disintegrating in a state of unrest. With the roads and avenues both broad and narrow that fed into one of the city's largest intentionally open spaces came the great exchange of humanity that accompanied war. Refugees, now accustomed to knowing, gathering, and shuttling the essentials of life trundled themselves, families, and belongings in the opposite direction of the areas of the city in which the worst of the micro-conflict was still playing out. Through brief exchanges, or the simple reading of the body language of one another, these expatriates of the city's various human ghettos merged into a mass consciousness that guided them toward supposed safety.

Coming the other direction, and these a mix of human and Zentraedi alike, were the disreputable characters that were always found in areas of turmoil. Sometimes moving in small bands, but more often alone, these were the looters and scavengers of conflict moving toward the sounds of the fight with empty cart or just strong back. Among them, though they were a near even mix of human and alien, there was little friction- perhaps even less than between those fleeing the fight. Possibly it was the sense that the battle within Brasilia that had been escalating steadily since well before first light was yielding a wealth of war-generated detritus through which there would be plenty for all to pick and choose.

Conspicuous by their absence in the midst of the thousands who entered Plaza Internacional and passed through it with every minute were the two components of the unrest. Neither armed Zentraedi bands nor the "stabilizing" element of the ASC Global Military Police had crossed the path of the mass exodus in any significant way.

Certainly, there had been signs. ASC-GMP armored personnel carriers rumbling heavily and quickly through adjacent streets to the Plaza headed unmistakably toward the points of conflict, or the quick rise and fall of the sounds of rotor blades as helicopters rushed to the same. Not a platoon or a squad of GMP was to be seen though directing the course of the fleeing.

Nor were there signs of the other side of the equation. The Zentraedi, the other factor without whom Brasilia would not have been suffering civil unrest were absent from sight in any kind of mobilized, fighting fashion. Like their ASC counterparts, they seemed to share in an unspoken agreement to meet elsewhere to conduct business under columns of rising black smoke.

This was not to say that there were no armed Zentraedi on Plaza Internacional.

A large number- no less than forty- stood sentry around the materializing form of a speaking platform in its final stages of construction. Twice as many of the aliens, and a handful of humans being paid handsomely for their knowledge of public address systems worked against a nearing deadline to make the platform ready for the speaker whose name did not need to be spoken to be known by all.

As wires were being run to connect the platform podium to a nearby sound control board and to the amplifiers that would allow the voice of the speaker to be heard clearly throughout the plaza and for blocks beyond, great panes of multi-density security plexiglass were being hoisted and fitted into steel frames by the sheer muscle of the Zentraedi laborers. The sentries kept the outer perimeter, including the box trucks ferrying the equipment, under vigilant scrutiny.

Bearing a bundle of false personal belongings (actually just wads of cloth and paper bound up with twine in a ragged-edged sheet of burlap that had fit the bill to complete her disguise) Lilith had studied the platform and the activity around it since she had entered the plaza along the same avenue that would serve as Gyle's shooting path also. A practiced and perfected false limp allowed her to lag in the hurried flow of refugees without drawing undue attention as she took in all that was to be seen.

Security was heavier than she would have liked, but this was to be expected given recent developments. Security was heavy- but not insurmountable. Several heart-pounding moments had given way to a forced calm in Lilith as she forced herself to assess only what she saw and not give way to speculation.

Security was heavy- but it was centered around the speaking platform itself and the equipment required to support the speaker. Defense of Yeshta was clearly still based on the two perceived threats- snipers and bombs. The guards, allowing only their own workers access to the platform were clearly acting to assure that no bomb could be planted, while the workers with the plexiglass were setting into place the barrier they trusted to stop a sniper's bullet.

It was with great relief that Lilith saw the gap in security that she hoped would allow the defense against snipers- one sniper team in particular- to be thwarted.

A large, steel cargo container stood just outside of the circle of activity of the Zentraedi laborers, and on the fringe of the attention of the guards. Given the activity around the platform and the box trucks containing the last elements of its construction, the container with its chipped, rust colored paint would have been easy for most to overlook. Lilith though, having been a careful student of every speaking occasion Yeshta had made over the past months, knew this container well. Its contents were the steel barricades that would go up at the last moment to keep the crowd back from the speaking platform. Six lengths of barricade that would be set up in a semi-circle around the platform, the two longest of which were _always_ at the center and just off center of the speaking platform.

It was in one of these that Lilith would have to conceal the plasma-napalm charge that she carried coiled like a serpent in the knapsack on her back.

Now it was just a matter of planting it.

Slight of hand tricks, Lilith had learned from years of practical application, were basically the finding of a distraction proportionate to the act that one wished to conceal. Throngs of evacuees and refugees provided ample material for the staging, and in a matter of moments Lilith found the tool she thought she could use best.

A great, framed backpack stuffed to overflow and with additional bundles lashed to every securing point swayed heavily through the crowd and beneath it a man, possibly of local descent, in his early thirties who could not have weighed much more than the pack he carried trudged with the burdened step of one under great physical exertion who was not accustomed to it. All of the immediate indicators told Lilith that this man's place was likely in an office, or in a flat removed from the more volatile aspects of life in Brasilia, but here he was homogenized with the other castes of humanity into the general category of "refugee" by the random movements of the violence consuming the city. Athletic shoes, too white to have been used for anything but carefully regimented exercise up to this point, khaki shorts and a button-down shirt that lacked only the neck kerchief and badges gave the man the appearance of a scout troop leader out for a weekend excursion. Only the sheer bulk of what he had packed in his frame pack showed that he was only playing the part of a scout leader without having the foundational knowledge of what were the essentials that might be needed for the refugee lifestyle. Perhaps it was partially because of the composition of his troop- a young wife, normally very pretty but denied this day of sufficient sleep and the dual buttresses of grooming implements and cosmetics, and the single file of two boys and a small girl ranging from somewhere in the pre-teens to a well-fed four that was now too large for either parent to carry. Wife and two eldest children carried bags also, of the "weekend getaway" and "school hallway fashionable" variety, equally stuffed beyond capacity as the father's frame pack and probably with equally useless items for survival- but the having of them had probably made all feel better hours before when the weight of all they carried had not asserted itself so sternly upon them. The little girl alone was without bundle, but the large, stuffed frog in denim coveralls that she pulled bumping along by a stuffed arm causing it to appear like a green child reluctantly in tow was clearly having the same draining effect.

Lilith felt the beginnings of a lump forming in her throat for this one sight that she had forced herself to focus on in the ebbing sea of humanity around her. Whether it was training or jaded indifference though, her mind was back to the part this family was to play in her task. Specifically, the part that a small, portable gas camping stove- one of the few visible items borne by the man that was of real value to him- that was lashed hastily by bungee cords to his pack would play.

Lilith worked her way through the oblivious crowd with the carefully paced step of a stalking predator- just fast enough to overtake the man without drawing undue attention. Like her quarry, the masses through which she wove and bobbed seemed fixated wearily on some point of the horizon seen only by them that was their ultimate goal to reach. With the pack in sight, and the overburdened legs beneath it, Lilith studied and felt the pendulum-like timing of the pack's sway left to right. It was regular, mechanical almost- the movements of a person too tired to do anything but fly on automatic pilot.

At the moment when the pack had swayed to its farthest point to the left and began to return right, Lilith snatched at the stove, twisting it with a practiced thief's skill out from under the securing bungees. As fluid and easy as this movement was, it was even less difficult for her to falsely lose ground to the crowd, waiting for the opportunity to transplant her ill-gotten gains and in doing so hopefully gain much more.

The moment came as another couple equally unaccustomed to the rootless existence passed to Lilith's right with a deep-tub child's wagon in tow. Within the wagon, along with the possessions and supplies they had chosen to bring, was a toddler- blissfully asleep against the cushion of a traditional teddy bear. All of the kindling needed was laid, now Lilith just needed the spark.

She dropped the stove into the wagon between two drawstring, nylon bags and quickly tucked one to partially conceal the new addition. She then veered left through gaps in the horde as they opened and closed and began to advance again.

The frame pack was still swaying to its perfect time, like a metronome to an unheard piano piece on civil disorder. Lilith doubled her pace in a small spurt, aware that the steel cargo carrier that was her ultimate goal was falling farther and farther behind, but not so fast as to appear out of place. She drew even with him within three paces and saw he wore the same dazed stare as all around them.

" _Hey-._ ", Lilith whispered.

The man ignored her. Whether he did so because he suspected some kind of con was about to be cast out for him to bite at, or whether he was just too tired to acknowledge the vague salutations of a stranger- the man's gaze remained fixed forward.

" _Hey!"_ , Lilith whispered again, more urgently, " _You're gonna lose all your shit if you're not careful."_

There was something in Lilith's tone or words, or the two combined, that found resonance with the man who looked to her questioningly.

"What?"

"The plaza's full of vultures, pal-.", Lilith said convincingly with false benevolence, "And they've been picking you _clean_."

Lilith jerked her head back in the direction of the young couple with the wagon and the toddler.

The man with the frame pack was in the process of asking something, but Lilith had already separated herself- shifting left again and putting distance between herself and what she hoped would happen next. The stove had been left visible enough to be seen from orbit- he would _have to_ wee it.

 _C'mon, damnit-. See it._

Lilith could no longer see the two chess pieces she had put into play for the refugees between she and them, but she heard the first raised voice. The first raised voice was followed by an equally angry reply- and then the first sounds of a scuffle. Weariness, anger, despair- all kicked in to bring out the worst of people who would have normally given each other play-through on the fourteenth hole of a golf course- as Lilith knew they would. Better for her though, the darker angels of humanity began to spread.

There was a particular contempt that Sub-Lieutenant Gnod felt for micronians.

This contempt was not of the same family of extreme distaste as he felt by virtue of his creation toward the Invid, whom he'd Awakened to as an enemy and whom he had fought in several campaigns before finding himself stranded with his comrades on this insufferable world. It was a distaste of a different nature.

The warrior in Gnod, as in all Zentraedi he supposed, had to give a grudging acknowledgement to the warrior's abilities of the micronians. Certainly they had been beaten to the very verge of annihilation in a single blow to which Gnod had been witness, and within the same day- the same _hour_ almost, had inflicted a counterblow upon the Zentraedi unparalleled in their entire history. This alone warranted respect.

At the same time though, in his exile on this world- Gnod had found a disquieting lack of uniformity to this virtue in the micronians. Unlike Invid who would stand their ground at odds of a hundred, or even a thousand to one and face certain death in defense of a patch of ground that would not provide space to contain the wreckage of the fight- micronians were more likely to flee a fight than join it.

The exodus of the micronians from Brasilia that Gnod had been standing witness to all morning while laborers toiled to complete the speaking platform for Action Commander Yeshta was an example of this.

Had they a shred of the warrior's spirit to them, they would have recognized that they possessed the numbers to easily quell the armed bands of true warriors, of Zentraedi, who had been selected to avenge the micronian affront by dismantling their frail take on civilization. Even now, Gnod was aware of what the micronians could either not see or chose to ignore- that had they wanted to, had they been willing to make the sacrifice, the mob now seeping through the channels of the city could easily overwhelm and neutralize the armed Zentraedi from whom they fled.

The majority of humans hadn't the stomach for blood, or the spine to stand upright, Gnod had resolved. They were deserving of being driven from their own city in leaving the fighting to the best caste, the only portion of their population worthy of the chance of preservation. The warrior caste, in its form known as The Army of the Southern Cross, was busy elsewhere in the city and had not made an appearance in any great numbers on the plaza. Gnod was grateful for that from the practical point that they alone could or would show interest in disrupting the detail that Gnod helped to defend. At the same time though, his warrior's essence would have preferred the clash to the slow filling of bile he felt rising in himself at the sight of the refugees.

It was to this quiet desire that Gnod felt Fate had responded when he sensed- _sensed_ moments before he saw evidence to support it- the initiation of battle.

Not battle in the Zentraedi sense, the true sense, but conflict at least.

Gnod's physical size allowed him to see clearly over the weak forms of all but the tallest micronians, and at great depth into the masses as they moved by the head of the plaza. His eyes snapped to the center of the disturbance which was already beginning to spread unchecked like fire in dry undergrowth. Two micronian males were locked in a clumsy, untrained grapple that achieved little except to fling both alternately into other micronians about them. Two females, clearly the mates of the males as Gnod had learned to recognize such relationships, and their offspring were wailing nearby but otherwise doing little to add to the success of their interests- whatever they may have been. In the process of the brawl, the hauling cart of one micronian had been overturned and theload-bearing gear of the other had been disturbed to the point where their struggle continued to strew its contents in their wake. Opportunists and scavengers quickly moved in on these, the scraps of hand-to-hand combat, and in doing so created competition for the same supplies and spun off many other fights of similar magnitude.

Gnod felt the rush of combat sweep the boredom of his duty and his resentment of the micronians from his veins, but he felt at the same time a surge of concern. If the situation got out of control, the micronians could easily damage or even destroy the speaking platform. If the situation began to lean that way, Gnod knew he and the security team assigned to protect the work would have no choice but open fire on the crowd. This thought was not unpleasant to Gnod, except that he knew well that the repercussion would be to draw the interest and likely the wrath of the ASC. Even the prospect of a fight with a worthy adversary was not troubling to Gnod-.

The thought that Yeshta would not be able to speak from this site, that he would have failed his Lord in his Duty was to Gnod.

The micronians had to be pacified and dispersed quickly and with minimal bloodshed.

 _Minimal._

True to human nature, and also as Lilith had discovered, to _Zentraedi_ nature- the commotion of a fight was irresistible and within moments of its initiation acted as a vortex to all around it, both human and alien. Some refugees overwhelmed already with the violence their city was descending into tried to escape the immediate vicinity of the brawl between the two men. For every one who decided on separating themselves from the melee, three crushed in to enjoy the vicarious rush of conflict. Among those moving toward the fight were a half dozen Zentraedi guards from Yeshta's security detail. They waded easily through the crowd by virtue of their superior size and strength and would be at the epicenter of the disturbance in seconds.

Lilith cared little what happened when they got there. What was important was that they were going, leaving still twice as many as their number to guard the speaking platform. Given the area to cover, the remaining guards were spread thin and true to their "nature"- their attention was more focused on the fight than on the task assigned to them.

Lilith had her chance now.

The steel door to the cargo container felt far less removed from sight when Lilith reached it than it had looked from a distance. She could still se much of the speaking platform and many of the Zentraedi guards supervising the work on it. Still-.

A heavy, combination padlock hung from the door's locking bolt. A pair of bolt cutters, or a small portable laser torch would have made quick work of the lock, but would have certainly alerted the alien security element to the fact that tampering had occurred. Lilith had come prepared to be more discrete though.

From her pocket she produced a device resembling an office stapler, and roughly the same size. Opening the jaws of the device, and fitting it over the lock, the knob of the combination dial fit into a socket while the rear plate of the lock sat flush against a sensor pad that would feel for the vibrations of the lock's tumblers aligning. The operation of the device required nothing more of Lilith than to squeeze. Had it been a key lock, a bladed device with the same purpose would have been drawn from Lilith's boot for use. Preparedness was key to her occupation.

It took only moments for Lilith to feel the locking ring release on the padlock. She quickly slipped the lock off the door bolt as she slipped the cracking device back into the deep pocket of her baggy trousers. When the door was opened, just enough to ease inside, the steel barricade railings stood against one another in storage- leaning to one wall of the cargo container like books on a shelf that was not quite full.

One section of railing protruded toward Lilith farther than the others, marking itself as the longest section. Lilith slipped the knapsack containing the plasma-napalm line charge off her back and carefully removed the improvised device. The primal regions of her brain associated with fear and self-preservation and fear were now screaming at her that she had already been there too long, despite the fact that it had been only a span of seconds. The reasoning portion of her brain struggled to keep the primal in check as Lilith reached for the steel end cap on the railing's upper, horizontal bar that was essentially a tube with vertical railings welded into it.

 _What if it didn't come off?_

The thought was horrifying as Lilith realized she had brought no tool that might be used of the end cap was on snugly, or worse- welded into place.

 _So much for preparedness._

"Hi guys, can I borrow a wrench?", Lilith said barely loud enough to hear herself, picturing the question being posed to a dozen stern-faced Zentraedi guards and the work crew. She needed the grim chuckle it brought to her as she got the best grip possible on the end cap and twisted.

A scream nearly escaped Lilith's throat as the cap came off easily in her hand, exposing the maw of the steel tube. Not wasting time to thank her luck, Lilith began to feed the plasma napalm charge into the railing.

The crowd roared with grotesque amusement, almost loudly enough to muffle the _crunch_ of the man in khaki clothing losing his right pinky finger between the teeth of the man he'd attacked less than a minute before for the brazen theft of a camp stove.

The man in khakis screamed out of horror as much as pain as the reduced stump of a finger squirted small drops of blood onto the faded green T-shirt and trousers of the opponent who had gotten the better of him. He was distantly aware that his wife and children were now screaming too- perhaps out of sympathetic pain, perhaps because of the agony of helplessness that was theirs alone. Only the wife and toddler of the man's opponent who he glimpsed spitting a severed finger away like gum chewed to the point of tastelessness were shrieking to bring down the heavens as well as the man in khakis tucked his wounded hand into the armpit of his other arm and retreated. He'd made the half turn away and two steps before the initial shock wore off and a dizzying wave of pain combined with the post-fight nausea to cause him to stumble into the crowd and land amongst them at their feet. For no credible reason, he became the recipient of the kicks of several.

The man in khakis was absorbed into the crowd and did not see it as a shotgun butt struck the victor in the match he had started over the head, crumpling him to the ground unconscious. It was likely not a comfort either that the victor began to receive much the same treatment.

" _Beh'lad tak!"_ , bellowed Gnod at the top of his voice, forgetting the command for a moment in the micronian dialect he'd become so familiar with, " _Beh'lad tak! Move on!_ "

Apparently the micronians had forgotten their own language as well, or perhaps they were beyond the point where words would reach them. The relentless assault half a dozen dedicated assailants and as many opportunists continued as others stared dumbly at both Gnod and the situation he was trying to neutralize.

It was just as well. Gnod preferred the direct approach.

Teeth flew as the butt of Gnod's shotgun struck the jaw of a micronian defying his instructions, and they had not scattered to the ground when the guards under Gnod's direction began to follow suit. Screams from the females in the crowd (they hadn't the nerve for violence, Gnod had discovered, that Zentraedi females possessed) and the micronian offspring spliced like razor-edged blades through the general noise as the crowd began to disperse and move again away from the threat of a sound clubbing.

Not wanting the situation to escalate, or rather that it was against his better judgment, Gnod ceased his indiscriminate blows against the crowd and in doing so signaled his warriors to do the same. Things were coming back under control again as the crowd began to move again over and around the two instigators of the disturbance who'd been bloodied worse by the mob than by each other.

" _Micronians-."_ , spat Whurjal who was on the verge of being diminutive by Zentraedi standards, but who to Gnod had more aggression in him than any three warriors, "Never willing to finish a fight they begin."

The sound of helicopter blades in the near distance reminded Gnod that the ASC would be less tolerant this day of any signs of Zentraedi insurrection replied, "Let's not start trouble with those among them who may. Back to your positions- there is still much to do, and not much time."

Gnod motioned his warriors back in the direction of the platform whose assembly had barely missed a beat during the quelling of the disturbance. It was difficult for Gnod as he too would have preferred to relieve the day's tensions with the stomping of frail micronians. Duty though. Duty required restraint and adherence to his assignment.

A motion caught Gnod's eye.

It may have been that the brush with battle had his senses heightened, or perhaps Fate had just directed the very edge of his sight to the correct position at exactly the right moment- but the motion caught his eye and Gnod's understanding of his responsibility instantly allowed him to attach a significance to it.

A micronian was among the supplies and equipment being used to prepare Action Commander Yeshta's speaking platform. More specifically, she was very near, _too near,_ to the steel cargo box that held the perimeter barricade. Her body (Gnod could tell it was a female from the slight build and side glimpses of her face) blocked the bolt and handle that kept the container door secure, but from her concealed motions it was obvious that she was attempting to gain access.

Then, perhaps sensing that the confusion of the fight no longer provided her cover, the micronian female abandoned the door and disappeared behind the concealment of a truck in a direction opposite the flow of refugees- heading back toward Brasilia's areas of conflict.

Gnod's instinct told him that this micronian warranted further pursuit and investigation, even though she was likely only a scavenger and had apparently been unsuccessful in stealing anything. His instincts told him that there was something more to this particular human.

Perceptive as Gnod was at a glance about Lilith, his instincts failed him at the same time in not allowing the thought to even cross his mind that the appearance of things may have been incorrect.

Lilith had been exiting the container.

 **Salvador Base**

The tempo of battle had been rapid, but the course predictable- if the term _predictable_ could be applied to a surprise attack.

The opening minutes of the fight had shown the rogue Zentraedi to incontrovertibly hold the initiative as the surprise to the ASC garrison was complete and the resulting confusion widespread. Had they been quicker to follow up the initial mortar attacks with the full force of their ground assault, or carried out both simultaneously they would have likely overrun the perimeter easily.

For whatever reason, there had been a pause though.

That pause was all that the garrison of ASC Salvador Base accustomed to the flash volatility of the Zentraedi Control Zone of Brazil needed to get their feet beneath them and mount a resistance. Once the ASC had their wits about them, the Zentraedi found themselves contending with the classic tactical dilemma of assaulting a well considered defensive position, protected by a force trained, equipped, and keen to defend it. If the initiative had not shifted to the ASC at this point, the advantage certainly had and the change of initiative came with the bulk of Salvador Base's air contingent, rotary and fixed wing, getting aloft with the sole purpose of returning the favor of violence on the Zentraedi ten fold.

Or so was Winters' impression from 1,500 feet.

He also could not help but wonder how many of the weapons, the bullets whose tracers now zipping across the field from the retreating Zentraedi line with much the same appearance as fireflies, had been supplied to the aliens ironically by the ASC. Had General Braddock been leading his garrison from the front, and been exposed to peril- Winters suspected he could have enjoyed that irony more. As it was though, Braddock was likely in the secure surroundings of Salvador's Ops Center, or maybe even an emergency command bunker below it. The Zentraedi would have to rally their offensive significantly if Braddock was to receive more than a paper cut as a result. In reality, Winters knew, he would suffer few consequences for the short-sightedness of his bad deeds while many young men and women would be wounded or killed this day for the same.

This was, Winters knew, the cruelty in cruel irony.

Cruelty could be eased, even in a malevolent force such as battle, with calculated action by those willing to take it. More specifically, the cruelty suffered by _one side_ could be eased- and the actions to accomplish it had been the activity of both the ASC air contingent and the visiting RDF Valkyrie squadrons for just over ninety minutes.

Winters felt obligated beyond the scope of adhering to sworn duty to help make the situation of the defending garrison a little better, as before the morning was over he had every intention of making Braddock's just a little worse.

"The perimeters east, south, and west look pretty stable from up here.", Mathias reported over the common operational frequency to the base command center, "A few more nape strikes parallel to the north fenceline might just break their grip."

Winters knew it likely would. And why not? Successive linear patterns of plasma-napalm dropped by Specter and Valkyrie alike this morning had created barriers between the Zentraedi and the ASC garrison- 10,000ْ Fahrenheit barriers that the assaulting aliens could simply not cross. Strike after strike, each further from the ASC defensive line, and the subsequent fires they had given rise to had put the Zentraedi back on their heels as much as anything else this morning and probably more.

"And what's the story on those AC-130s?", Mathias asked, following up on the possibility of heavy gunship support hinted at by the ops center some forty-five minutes earlier.

"An hour, if they're not diverted, Mojo.", replied the ops center, "They're down to rearm and refuel."

"An _hour?_ ", Mathias stammered, "The ditto bastards will be half way to Venezuela in an hour. We need to stomp them _now_ , or we'll be fightin' `em again tomorrow!"

 _Cry me a river, you bastard-_ , thought Winters as Salvador ignored Mathias's tactical assessment.

"Continue to extend your pattern north, Mojo. Take it out another two hundred meters and orbit for further instructions."

Winters heard a forced sigh of frustration from Mathias and wondered if there might be a particular Zentraedi that he was hoping to "stomp".

"That's you and me, Winters.", Mathias said, "Two of yours, two of mine?"

Again, as it had been all throughout the course of the battle, one-sided as it was from the air, Mathias and Winters had spent the balance observing and directing the strikes of the Cavaliers and the Knight Hawks, without making attack runs themselves. In truth, Winters knew and knew that Mathias knew it as well, the two men were as busy in the task of watching one another as in fighting the rogue Zentraedi assault. They were as convicts escaped from a chain gang and linked at the ankles- theirs was a collaboration of necessity, not trust.

They would watch one another.

"Dodger, Pinball- you're up.", Winters ordered, "Build on the pattern Mojo's ships begin."

"Copy that, Jack.", Capt. Peter "Dodger" Lindsey, acknowledged as he and his wingman broke from the orbiting Valkyries above to join up with two of Mathias's Specters to the east to begin their attack run.

As Winters completed another broad circuit of the base's northern perimeter with Mathias, he took a moment to focus his situational awareness. His central MFD showed the RDF cargo contingent, Lyle's VC-33 along with Maj. Goodson's entire flight of CT-1 transports to the north, and continuing to move north. ASC attention was dedicated to defense, and little was paid to empty transport aircraft so long as they remained out from underfoot. Mumuni and the Vigilantes were spread thinly, but appropriately so along the southern and western perimeters with other ASC squadrons monitoring these areas whose contest was cooling rapidly.

It was at this moment that Winters saw the first signs of what he'd been waiting for since getting airborne. A flight of ASC Specters, approaching the airfield by section, was in the initial stages of landing. There was no doubt that the ASC pilots had every bit as much fight left in them as their RDF counterparts and would have gladly stayed aloft to maintain the vigil over their home in the wilderness- but they were limited by the operational capabilities of their attack aircraft. Rushed aloft, laden with as much ordinance as had been possible to load quickly, and forced to fly in the dense air of the low atmosphere- the Specters had simply burned off their fuel and were now being forced to land or risk falling out of the sky.

Winters had no reason to suspect that Mathias's condition, or that of his squadron was any better. Their engines would soon be sucking vapors as well if they did not refuel.

When they did, the moment for the break would be at hand and would have to be seized. There was just no telling as to when another might come, or what might happen in the interim.

"Ten seconds to target."

Winters snapped back to the attack run about to begin to his south. The words from the pilot of one of Mathias's Specters came as the leading pair approached from the east at an altitude that seemed to threaten the treetops. Dodger and Pinball were trailing at a little under two kilometers, flying the same staggered wing-abreast formation.

Winters saw the plasma napalm canisters separate from the first Specter as they grazed the smoke-obscured rain forest canopy, followed a moment later by those from the second. The canisters opened almost as soon as they separated, scattering their submunitions into the jungle below. The dense vegetation vanished in the wake of the Specters as a wall of plasma flame rose high into the air. The leaves of trees a hundred meters to either side of the line of impact points burst into flame followed by the limbs and trunks of the trees a moment later as the intense heat washed over them.

The Specters climbed away and veered off as the following Valkyries rode the chop of the rising thermal currents to extend the strike further west with much the same effect. The fingers of flame leaping from the area swayed with a gentle, common rhythm like great swells on a sea of fire. With its entire perimeter barricaded similarly from the wilderness beyond, Salvador Base looked to Winters as he suspected the realm of Hades may have been envisioned to look in the minds of the ancient Greeks. Hell itself.

Winters wasn't certain that the comparison was unjustified.

"Knight Hawk Leader, Babble.", came the voice of the Ops Center borrowing the base's tower name for identification, "Climb to angels eight and orbit to await orders. ASC units will relieve you once they've refueled. Over."

"Copy that.", Winters said, suddenly feeling the knot form in his gut. The tight discomfort had spared him strangely enough up to this moment, but it had come now and he could feel it growing like a ball of yarn with its strand being wound back around it.

"Damn if things weren't just getting interesting.", Mathias said, pulling level and even with Winters' Valkyrie,

Winters looked over and could see the other pilot in his cockpit. Mathias's tinted helmet visor was down, so eye contact was not possible though Winters could still feel the other squadron leader's beady eyes boring into him.

"Well, the day's hardly over."

"Far from it.", agreed Mathias, "I'd better put this beast down or start flapping. See you on the ground, Winters."

"I'll see you on the ground.", Winters replied as Mathias's Specter broke away

No sooner ad Mathias's aircraft shown Winters its belly than he switched his radio to the coded RDF frequency he knew the other Valkyries would be monitoring. He could have made the switch at any time, but there was something unnerving about conspiring while Mathias was anywhere nearby. It was not as though he was capable of mentally tuning in to a coded radio transmission or to Winters' thoughts, but the sliver of superstition in Winters wasn't about to take the chance that he could either.

"Vice, Buster- swap stations.", Winters ordered, effectively trading out his wingman for the squadron XO, "Knight Hawks, wait for Buster and I to break off for our run and then break away to join up with our transports to the north. We'll join up as soon as possible, but follow Switchblade's lead. Vice, you have squadron command until Buster and I join up again."

"Copy that, Jack.", Vice replied.

The two squadrons were joining in a lazy climb to eight thousand feet by now, and beginning the orbit of Salvador ordered by Babble.

"Delay that, Buster."

Winters felt the knot in his gut clench like a fist as Mumuni's voice filled his earphones. As ranking RDF officer she had every right and in truth the obligation to axe the treasonous plan Winters was initiating- but he could not fathom why she would at this moment.

"Jack, keep your XO with your squadron. I'll take your wing on this."

The knot in Winters' gut loosened- some.

"Are you sure?", Winters asked, "You just got that bird, Colonel, it would be a shame to lose it so soon."

"Butler will stand me up next to you in front of the firing squad anyway.", Mumuni said, her voice sounding as though it came through clenched teeth, "If I'm going to burn, I want to burn for something I did. Hear this all of you-. It's Jack and I on this. The rest of you join up with the transports and get the hell out of ASC controlled airspace as quick as you can. Engage only to defend yourselves. Is that clear?"

"Clear.", Lt. Col. "Dusty" Drake, Mumuni's XO in Vigilante Squadron replied, "Good luck."

"Ditto.", said Dalton with no less clarity of meaning and sincerity.

Mumuni eased her Valkyrie onto Winters' wing and hung there expertly as they continued to orbit the field. A half dozen Specters were stacked at the base's outer marker and being brought in by pairs to land. Winters couldn't tell which, but he knew Mathias was one of them.

Through a haze of smoke, the Specters already on the ground could be seen either moving off the runway apron or already stationary on the tarmac as ground crews worked feverishly to rearm and refuel them.

"Your plan, Jack.", Mumuni said, "How are we doing this?"

"Damned if I know-.", Winters blurted back. A moment's though thwarted the temptation of what he wanted to do as soon as Mathias's wheels kissed ground and yielded, "No casualties- if possible. Just keep them from putting up a pursuit force, and dumb them up to keep them from calling on anyone else to do the same. And-."

"And?"

Winters looked down into the various buildings of the base, "And a little payback for Wang."

Captain Martorell pressed the headset earphone of the radio to his right ear while he pressed the palm of his left hand to the corresponding ear to muffle the sound of three Aztec attack helicopters passing overhead. The base's Aztecs, and a half dozen Lakotas quickly fitted out to act as gunships had drawn within the base perimeter as soon as the fighters had gotten aloft to perform air support duties. The choppers had since and were still flying low sentry patterns over the inner perimeter should their deadly services be required.

Martorell anticipated no need, but the psychological reassurance of having them overhead was good for his troops. The fight had been over really since the wounds in the perimeter had been cauterized with plasma napalm. The flow of rogue Zentraedi into Salvador had been staunched as the first strikes incinerated whatever forces had massed inside the treeline, while at the same time cutting off the path of retreat for those Zentraedi who had already exploited the breech.

Subsequent strikes from both the base's fighters, and also from the visiting RDF had driven the Zentraedi back farther from the base with each. Even the mortar attack that had dwindled with the first counter-battery fire had quickly ceased altogether, telling Martorell that the Zentraedi were in full flight and doing so as fast as their feet would carry them. He couldn't blame them though- to not be vaporized or burn alive was not to be a coward, it was common sense. The same common sense that the rogue Zentraedi had developed in their time on Earth that told them to bide their time to strike selectively, and to save themselves to fight another day rather than sacrifice themselves to an untenable situation for a sense of warrior's honor.

They'd be back, Martorell knew. Maybe not today, but they would be back. As such, Martorell was now feeling the pressure to pursue. If he could not meet the Zentraedi now, on his terms, he would have to meet them again in the future on theirs. H preferred his terms.

"Say again-. Over.", Martorell said into the headset as the noise and the blast of rotor wash subsided.

"Report your status. Over.", repeated the voice of regimental command.

Martorell looked out over the field into which he'd sent three platoons to make a sweep and mop-up. Every few seconds, sometimes longer, a rifle or pistol report would show that an alien had been found alive and the situation _corrected_. It was a necessary practice that was nonetheless withheld from public knowledge as much as possible. Putting down of the wounded, even if they were Zentraedi, was still seen by many as vicious and inhuman.

 _Inhuman_ was the enemy though, Martorell knew as did anyone who had ever fought them. The fact was, and no one could ever adequately explain this to a person who had not seen the point demonstrated, that a wounded Zentraedi would not accept capture, or even the easing of their pain through morphine to make their dying easier. By gun, grenade, knife, or even their bare hands if they had no other means they would inevitably opt to take the _humanitarian_ along with them to whatever warrior's paradise they believed in.

It was safer to just put one in their head. That way, everyone got what they wanted.

Then, there was also the potential for sappers playing possum amongst the dead. The Zentraedi learned quickly. If nothing else complementary could be said about them by Martorell, he would always say that.

"We're securing the field now.", Martorell replied as double rifle shots underscored his statement, "There's a lot of dittos out there- figure on forty-five minutes at least. Over."

"Are you combat effective for pursuit? Over."

"Effective and anxious. Over."

"Copy that. Detach two platoons for the pursuit effort and have them rearmed and rallied on the helipad in fifteen minutes, Captain. Over."

"Understood- we'll be there. Over."

It was always encouraging to Martorell that Regiment normally saw things the way they were seen from the trenches. One admirable quality about the Army of the Southern Cross, as the captain saw it, was the unwritten but very real requirement for promotion that an officer had done his time wetting his steel. This was no guarantee that every order handed down to the infantry man made intuitive sense- but it certainly had the effect of having more do so.

Gathering his rifle, Martorell already knew the platoons he'd take skirmishing. He'd gather them up personally and have them prepped and ready on the helipad as ordered. It was going to be a long day, but promised to end a better one than it had started.

Hearing the powerful noise of jet engines rising, a sound different from those jets that had been passing to the south and landing for a quarter of an hour, Martorell took a moment to look up and around. He did not have to look for long to find the source of the noise. A pair of RDF Valkyrie fighters had come down from their patrolling altitude and were in the process of turning toward the runways at the center of the base.

Lt. Col. "Mojo" Mathias rested his left arm on the open cockpit rim as his fighter reached the runway ramp and he swung the nose right to roll onto the apron beyond. The tarmac, straddled by HAS and hangars, storage structures and workshops lay just off to the right and was crawling with activity around two squadrons' complement of Specter fighters. Turn-around on the Specter was normally very quick- under fifteen minutes if the ground crew was clicking and meshing as they should. It could be expected then that the first Specters to set down would be ready to push off and get aloft again soon.

This, as much as anything might have explained what Mathias was seeing as the tarmac crept closer.

Small groups of tarmac workers and ground crews were gathering at the edge of the tarmac looking out. It seemed curious to Mathias that following an attack that these personnel had no better use for their time than to stand about.

Then, as details came into focus through the light haze of smoke that drifted across the base from the fires all around the perimeter, Mathias noticed many pointing. Not pointing at him, or for him, but he was quick to follow the direction of the common gesture and see.

Two Valkyries were coming in low, fast, and level at a right angle to the runways to the rear of Mathias's fighter. Their posture was a clear statement of intent, though it was still a shock to the squadron leader as a steady burst of laser blasts leapt from their cannons in their noses, and zip of tracers from their underslung GU-11 gun pods coincided with a heavy drone from the same.

Laser bolt and cannon round stitched through earth and concrete, leaving a rooster tail wake of dirt and debris in much the same way that a speedboat could be seen kicking water into the air. A broad, pitted path walked across the width of first one runway and then the other before terminating well into the field beyond.

The last bits of dirt had not fallen back to earth when the whole base seemed to shake with the low-altitude pass of the two Veritechs.

They passed in a blur, climbing away from sporadic small arms fire that raced up at them from various points in retaliatory but futile acts. Mathias could not see the markings on either fighter clearly in the brief glimpse he had of them both over his tail and from the vantage of a craned neck, but he knew. He knew as soundly as anything he'd read as fact or witnessed first hand.

He knew.

" _Winters-."_

Colonel "Switchblade" Mumuni giggled hyena-like at the giddy rush of so blatantly doing wrong. Winters found himself grinning- the knot in his belly now too large to giggle- and wondered if it was Mumuni's African origin that immediately brought the hyena image to mind at hearing her laugh. It hardly mattered, and he had more pressing things to concentrate on if he wanted to realize the comparatively pleasant future of life in a military prison.

"Two runways out of action.", Mumuni said, having regained her composure quickly as she climbed away from the base, wing-to-wing with Winters' fighter.

"Or close enough at least.", Winters agreed, "Thank God the ASC doesn't invest heavily in VTOL."

The ASC had not invested heavily in VTOL-capable aircraft, and no fixed wing fighter would soon be rolling out onto either runway for a sprint into the air. Salvador Base's fighter wings had been bloodlessly, but effectively clipped.

"Now what?", Mumuni asked. She had rank, but it was Winters' plan- and lawlessness had an equalizing effect.

"You blind them and gag them.", Winters said breaking off to the right with a steep, banking turn, "I'm going to kick them in the ballocks a few times."

Mumuni understood immediately and as quickly knew the importance of doing just as Winters said with haste. General Braddock could no longer send his own fighters after Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadrons, but a call to any other base commander in the Control Zone could have the whole of the ASC Air Force on the hunt for them.

Mumuni put her control stick over to the right and followed Winters through his broad turn that took them out over the eastern vase perimeter and back south to line up for another run. As they rolled through the compasses direction, east to south, south to west, and west to north again, Winters split off. Mumuni paid no mind to this. Her target was not along the same path as his and needed to be taken out on this run. If a call of distress to other ASC forces had not gone out, it soon would. A miss on this run would increase the chances that the call for help would get out, and another strike run would mean a greater likelihood of butting heads with the base's anti-aircraft defenses that were almost certainly being readied at this very moment.

Mumuni's target was prominent, and easily located.

A steel frame tower standing a hundred meters high at the center of the base just beyond the command post and operations center supported clusters of meteorological gear and antennas. Among them were the base's primary microwave and satellite communications antennas, and in a crowning fiberglass dome, the base's radar gear. Mumuni was certain that here had to be redundancy built in somewhere, but it was not readily visible and the best that could be hoped for was that taking down the primary systems would buy enough time to escape.

Mumuni toggled up and selected the two Mavericks that had been loaded onto her aircraft and that she had reserved for this moment. The target designator reticule appeared inside her helmet visor, and she assigned a Maverick to each of the tower's two closest legs. As soon as the system confirmed a lock onto the assigned targets, Mumuni released the firing safety and squeezed the trigger twice.

The two Mavericks dropped free from her wings and rocketed away leaving thin wakes of white smoke. Mumuni pulled up and left as the fighter's laser designator kept the targets painted automatically. Salvador Base was losing the fine details that could be seen flying at low altitude when the two Mavericks struck.

Both hit their respective support legs just below where they joined the gridwork of steel beams that formed the tower. The heavy warheads, designed to penetrate heavy mecha or tank armor sheered through the less substantial building materiel easily, lifting the impacted side of the tower with the strength of the dual blasts. The tower shimmied as it rocked back with the transfer and flow of kinetic energy, then sagged to and collapsed toward its severed legs.

The tower lost its recognizable shape as it laid out over two buildings including the operations center. There were no secondary explosions or dramatic showers of sparks from torn power lines, and there seemed to be little damage to the buildings that the tower had comedown upon.

Mumuni found herself feeling let down somewhat by the spectacle that did not match the gravity of offense she had just committed. Salvador was well below her now and she could see Jack's fighter lining up on his target that lay on the far side of the base. She expected something more dramatic from his action.

Winters had a way of being like that.

Mathias tumbled out of the cockpit of his Specter as soon as it came to a stop and the engines had started powering down. He leapt clear before the ground crew could move a ladder into place for him, and heard a crunch and felt a sharp stab of pain in his left ankle as he landed clumsily on it. So sure was he that Winters next pass would have him staring down the rotating tri-barrels of the Valkyrie's GU-11 that he pushed off of the tarmac on the same left ankle to put distance between himself and the fighter that now played the part of a sitting duck.

"What the hell is going on, Colonel?", asked the ranking NCO in the ground crew that had come to tend to Mathias and his aircraft. Seeing Mathias limp on the ankle that the pilot was realizing was just sprained, possibly badly, but not broken- the Tech Sergeant tried to give the officer an arm to support some of his weight.

Mathias knocked the tech sergeant's offered arm away, snapping at him, "Damn RDF's lost their fuckin' minds! Forget these Specters- get them the hell off the tarmac and start to prep the Phantoms!"

The ground shook all around under the thunder of an approaching Valkyrie's engines. Mathias considered hugging concrete, but before he dove, he saw Winters on approach and coming in fast. He would pass over the field again, but he wasn't lined up properly to shoot at either Mathias's recently abandoned Specter fighter, or at anything else on the tarmac.

The Valkyrie streaked by low enough that Mathias was certain that had he been standing beneath it, he could have stood on his toes and caught hold of the lower rims of Winters' engine intakes. Mathias was not impressed by the display of flying skill, particularly as he suddenly understood where it was that Winters was headed and for what reason.

Across the airfield and the shattered runways, Mathias could see the base's garrison who had returned fire defiantly at the attacking Veritechs after their first pass now part before Winters' lone fighter like the Red Sea before Moses. There was bravery, and then there was stupidity.

There was a repeated flash and puff of smoke from the Hydra rocket pods below the Valkyrie's wings, and the six rockets fired flew their course true to their target. A warehouse in the storage area of the base. Not just any warehouse, but the one warehouse that Mathias dreaded the loss of above all the others combined.

The Hydra rockets shredded the face of the warehouse with at least one penetrating to explode within and send sections of the steel roofing up into the air.

Mathias felt his heart, already in his throat, stop at the implication. Almost as though to drive his point home and make a personal statement, Winters showed he was not done yet. As the nose of the Valkyrie turned skyward, two dark shapes separated from the wings and burst into many smaller objects.

Mathias knew what he was seeing even before the weapons detonated. The warehouse was consumed in a ball of plasma napalm fire that massed and churned before rising slowly into the sky to obscure the escape of the Valkyrie.

Mathias now felt sick. Sick at what had been lost, and at how easily after all of the planning and effort that had gone into the collecting of it.

" _Holy shit…."_ , muttered the tech sergeant as though the blasphemous coupling of words had been the beginning of a prayer that he'd forgotten the rest of.

Mathias was numbed, but could hear himself saying, "Get the Phantoms ready for flight."

The tech sergeant protested by way of pointing out, "The runway's all shot to hell sir, you couldn't take off if you wanted to-."

The numbness in Mathias was replaced with a surge of rage as the wash of heat from the plasma napalm explosion heated his face like a slap from the back of Winters' hand. He thrust a threatening finger into the NCO's face, bellowing, " _Then get the fucking engineers out here too!"_

A commotion around the two men caused Mathias to look up a second time. The rising fireball had blocked him from seeing it before, but he saw it now.

Winters was coming back.

The distorted tune of _Gary Owen_ flowed off of Winters' lips and into his oxygen mask, off key and too fast. It would have been laughable to the pilot, only he was too on task to manage a laugh.

From the vantage point of a higher altitude, he saw the damage his napalm canisters had done. There was nothing left resembling the warehouse he'd bombed, and the warehouses surrounding it sagged toward the destroyed structure as the steel in their walls and frames softened from the intense heat. Winters had seen troops fleeing the area before he had released, and saw no bodies now- so he was hopeful that between fleeing and the shelter provided by the other warehouses in the storage complex that the men on the ground had gotten clear. One way or the other it was a done deed and there could be no undoing of it.

Just one task left, and then to run like hell.

"Jack, what are you doing?", Mumuni asked having seen the destruction of the warehouse and with it all of the drugs that had meant so much to the resident ASC, "We _really_ need to go _now!_ "

"Twenty seconds, and we're out.", Winters assured her.

The center of Salvador base loomed up, the tangle of steel that had been the base's radar and communications tower glittered brightly in wrecked splendor across the Ops Center and beyond. Winters selected his Hydra rockets as he cleared the command complex and headed on toward the housing areas.

General Braddock had built his home as the prominent center of the base, unmistakable in the gleaming white of its stucco treated walls. It was a clear sign of prestige, and made even a clearer target. Winters had no way of being sure that Braddock wasn't within- being commanding officer of the post, he was likely in the CP, and hopefully cowering under a table after having Mumuni bring the tower down on top of him. There was no being sure- but Winters could hope.

From where he stood on the tarmac, Mathias could see the long volley of rockets leave the pods on the Valkyrie's wings. He didn't need to see where they hit to know what the target had been, and the explosion and rising cloud of smoke and debris seemed to bear his suspicions out. Insult had been added to injury, and intentionally so.

" _Son of a bitch._ ", Mathias growled darkly.

He watched as Winters climbed away into the sky, dropping the presumably empty Hydra pods away before adding the final visible touch of performing a victory roll.

The gauntlet had been thrown down and now it was personal.

" _Son of a two bit whore bitch!_ "

On the tarmac, Specters were being moved hastily away as the sleeker Phantom fighters, planes deserving of the title, were being moved out and prepared for flight.

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

Dusk had already settled heavily onto the shoulders of the eastern hills and was rolling like the curl of a great wave toward the western horizon, though Training Platoon 6045 did not notice this. The rain that had varied all day between driving deluge to gentle patter had even eased to little more than a misting was not noticed by the recruit trainees either.

In perfect rows and columns they stood on the marshalling ground- the collective quiver of muscular exhaustion running through the group like the ringlets of raindrops on the surface of a pond. The physical object that had caused their collective misery, the albatross that had hung all day around their necks, lay before them all on the marshalling field. The Wall, that had stood for years as just another obstacle for physical training had become mobile that day, and had been conveyed to every conceivable point of RTC 32 by means of the training platoon. Now though it sat idle before the collection of sore shoulders and rubbery legs that had ferried it all day- waiting for it's next trek to wherever.

"Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae", said the RTC Commander, Colonel Fitzpatrick who was every bit as tall and lanky as O'Shae was short and stocky, "I can't say that I've ever heard anything of the like in the history of this facility."

Fitzpatrick, in full uniform and under the protection of an umbrella walked slowly around the horizontal form of The Wall looking down on it the way one looked down on and inspected a dead animal.

Colonel Fitzpatrick, though not involved in the daily regiments of the training process was not by any means making his first appearance before the recruit trainees. All in Platoon 6045- in all of the RTC's training units actually- had spied glimpses of the senior officer monitoring their progress and watching over their condition from afar, but without interfering or interacting. It was, as someone from the platoon had noted just loudly enough to be heard by those immediately around her, like Hitchcock's signature of walking through his own films. There was no material significance to the act except for all to feel his presence.

Training Platoon 6045 was feeling his presence now.

There was a peculiar ominous quality to the displeasure of an officer in comparison to that of O'Shae or one of his junior training sergeants. It was like the movement of a tsunami through the deep ocean- a barely noticeable occurrence that still had the feeling of incomparable power and devastation. It was the driving force, the cause of the tragedy that would be O'Shae- the tidal surge, to complete the analogy- once Fitzpatrick departed.

"In these times of want, this shows considerable indifference to the property that the taxpayers provide for their benefit.", Fitzpatrick said, completing his brief inspection of the uprooted obstacle, "Wouldn't you say, Senior Master Sergeant?"

O'Shae, standing as rigid as marble statues of martial perfection with his staff replied, "Yes sir. It does show a lack of forethought."

Fitzpatrick shifted his gaze from the obstacle to the training platoon, chilling all with its calm, icy steadiness, "Andi I take it that those primarily responsible for this have been identified?"

"Yes, sir.", O'Shae replied.

"And what are we to do? Will I be signing discharge papers tomorrow?"

Andy braced himself. There wasn't a muscle in his body that didn't burn at the moment despite the chill of his soaked training uniform, and his joints throbbed as though he'd already come apart and been put back together a dozen times- but the thought of being put shamed on a bus bound for Egerton was far more unpleasant.

"No sir, if I may beg your pardon.", O'Shae said, "I think the culprits are at worst guilty of _irregular_ thinking with a touch of not considering the consequences."

"Irregular thinking, Senior Master Sergeant?", Fitzpatrick repeated, examining each face in the group to see if an expression of guilt might give away the parties of whom O'Shae spoke, "That's a lenient classification."

If O'Shae was made uncomfortable by being contradicted by his superior, he did not show it outwardly. He said surely and steadily, "Perhaps, sir, the failing was mine and ours in the training exercise."

"How's that, O'Shae?"

"Our instructions, sir", O'Shae explained, "were that the training platoon should work together to get every member across the obstacle. We were not specific in how it should be accomplished, sir."

Fitzpatrick did not appear wholly convinced, "I think that it's implied that the obstacle not be destroyed in the process, O'Shae."

"Yes, sir.", agreed O'Shae, "But begging the Colonel's pardon again, the only requirement given to the trainees was that they get the entire platoon over the obstacle- which they did. If I may say so, sir- they took the latitude given to them in their orders and accomplished the task. They risked the consequences together, and they have paid together. And a final point, if I may, sir- the obstacle is not destroyed- it's merely _displaced._ "

Fitzpatrick snorted, " _Displaced-_."

The colonel surveyed every face a second time, this time with a deeper, probing stare as though looking for the answer to an undecided question in each set of eyes.

"Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae?"

"Yes sir?"

"I take it that you feel, in your considerable experience and measured opinion that the trainees responsible for this can be salvaged and made into productive members of our Defense Force?"

"I do, sir.", O'Shae replied- Andy feeling the weight of his comments though his stare never fell upon him, "They're thick headed, but O'Shae has months to work on them."

Fitzpatrick nodded his acceptance of this judgment, "Then I defer to your experience, Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae- but I won't hear another whisper of trouble from this lot, will I?"

"Not a breath, sir."

"Carry on, then.", Fitzpatrick said walking away, and then with a pause of an afterthought, added, "Though I suspect that this obstacle has a proper place. It should be returned there before evening assembly, and I would expect that this platoon have some part of putting it back the way it belongs tomorrow under the supervision of the facility engineers."

"Yes, Colonel.", O'Shae replied, "As you say, sir."

With that, the commanding officer was gone, and with him some of the weight of impending doom that Andy had been feeling all day. Without a doubt, O'Shae still had some discomforts in store for Training Platoon 6045 before the day was over- but Andy had peace of mind that he would still be around to suffer the misfortunes of tomorrow.

" _You heard the Colonel, you miserable, teet-sucking whelps-!_ ", O'Shae bellowed like the thunder of an angered god, " _We're up for a li'l hike to the obstacle course, `n y'll be sure`a seein' it first thing tomorrow! Fall out to bear The Wall!"_

As the platoon dissolved its formation to take their places to lift and carry, the fatigue seemed lessened by the promise that at the very least the end was in sight for the day.

There would be a little more suffering though, and that began now.

 **Brasilia**

Gnod was certain that the micronian female that he and Whurjal had been trailing for four blocks was aware that she was being pursued.

It was inevitable that she would become wise to being followed at some point, Gnod knew. He and Whurjal, like she, were moving against the general flow of refugees from throughout the city, and physically they stood out from the mostly human tide of the displaced.

What was unusual about this micronian, and what was continuing to fuel Gnod's interest in her was how quickly she had perceived their pursuit. He and Whurjal had been cautious to keep a constant block's length between themselves and the woman, and at that distance one might come to suspect they were being followed after several glances back. Her behavior had quickly shown that she had suspected pursuit much more quickly though, and how she reacted was less like a thief or a random looter than something else. Gnod had dealt with that sort as they were common in the micronian population, and they were prone to flee when they were confronted or pursued- flee as fast as their feet would carry them.

 _This_ micronian was trying to flee by way of evasion.

Twice already she had cut laterally at an intersection to move onto a parallel street, even going so far the second time as to double back in the direction of Plaza Internacional. Gnod and Whurjal had nearly lost her with that attempt, but Fate had allowed Whurjal catch a glimpse of her through an alleyway as she returned to her original path of escape. The two Zentraedi guards had cut through this same gap between buildings to reassume the tail they had on the woman- unsure if she was aware that she had not shaken them.

Gnod had his answer from forty meters back as the woman, with a casual, backwards half-glance made definite eye contact and in the same moment broke into a flat-out run.

" _Go!_ ", Gnod blurted at Whurjal as he burst into a mad sprint to close the distance with the fleeing micronian woman, who like her Zentraedi pursuers was physically plowing a broad path through the oncoming refugees as she ran. Gnod and Whurjal, having the distinct advantages of size and strength that either allowed refugees in their path to see them charging and move out of the way, or allowed the aliens to plunge through as easily as running in high grass. Their advantages were working to their benefit and the gap was closing when the micronian female ducked into another alley, pulling a cart being drawn by a nearby refugee over in her wake to slow the progress of her pursuers.

Gnot, coming up on the alley, released the safety on his shotgun. Flight was clearly not working for the woman, and the fight instinct would have to take over sooner or later. What Gnod did not know and was not prepared to find out by surprise was how capable of fighting the micronian was.

Buckshot to the legs had a way of taking the fight out of most micronians, Gnod had discovered. It also made the interrogation process go more quickly. Micronians were averse to pain, and if they had a taste of it they normally would do anything to avoid more. And, if for some reason he had to simply put her down, Gnod reasoned, it was just a micronian and one would not be missed in the general chaos of the city.

Lilith had other ideas.

She had first sensed that she had been noticed when she had been no more than twenty steps from the cargo container on the fringe of the Plaza Internacional, and had wanted to dismiss the feeling at the jitters that always came with a post-adrenaline "downer". The majority of the activities involved in field ops were pass or fail, and generally speaking you only failed _once_. Lilith had always trained and worked hard to ensure she never failed- but there was always the random element of luck.

 _If they'd seen you fucking around with their set-up, you wouldn't have made it alive off the plaza._

The attempt to assure herself that she was just being jumpy lasted time it had taken to turn on to the street that was the direct path to the shooting position that Oakes and Gyle should have been in the process of preparing.

The inconspicuous, low profile always being the best option, the next ten minutes had been attempts to cut free of the aliens who had chosen to keep a comfortable distance. Lilith had tried running parallel and doubling back with no productive effect. There was the option of slipping into a building, but with the city coming apart all doors were locked and the buildings would be mostly empty- not an ideal position to risk being cornered.

Evasion was an option that was quickly being exhausted, but control of the situation was still obtainable by more _direct_ means.

And who would miss two Zentraedi.

The first alien crossed the opening of the alley, as Lilith had expected, distracted by the clutter of the cart she had toppled in her wake and the effort to not stumble over its strewn contents. By the time he saw her, and more importantly the .45 automatic pistol she that had been concealed beneath her outer clothing Lilith had had the time to take decent aim.

The .45 kicked some, and the single shot rewarded Lilith with an explosion of blue blood and hair as the head shot sent the alien onto his back before he even had the opportunity to point the shotgun he carried in Lilith's direction.

The second alien, a smaller but apparently more prudent Zentraedi, swung around the corner of the building that formed the alley's right wall with his shotgun at the ready. Lilith saw the flash of the barrel as she got off her second and third round of the fight. A heap of trash in bags and torn cardboard boxes to Lilith's left flew apart, shredded by buckshot that clanged loudly off the dumpster the garbage had been piled in front of. Something burned deep into her left hip as a blow like the force of a lineman tackling her at waist level struck her and sent her skittering to the right wall of the alley.

Lilith regained her composure quickly, and found her adversary staggering into the allay and directly toward her. His face was flushed a deep blue, and the dark stain of blood was spreading from a wound high on his left shoulder near where it joined his neck. The impact and tissue damage caused by a .45 slug, especially a talon round as Lilith had loaded into her weapon, would have laid a human flat even if the wound had not been instantly fatal. Zentraedi were more stubborn.

This particular Zentraedi was more stubborn in the extreme as not only had he not gone down with his wound, but he was cycling out the spent shell from his shotgun as he pressed on. Lilith saw the empty casing spin free of the ejection breech as the weapon's pump went back and then forward again. Automatics worked faster though.

A large hole and a misty puff of blue blood and tissue appeared at each point where a .45 slug entered the alien's chest as Lilith emptied the remaining five rounds of her clip in a tight grouping to the center body mass. The Zentraedi's freshly chambered round did not get a chance to be fired as the weapon struck the alley pavement, still clutched in its owner's dead hand.

Lilith ejected her spent clip, reloaded, and sent the pistol's slide action snapping forward in one fluid motion- realizing only then that she'd sunk to a near crouch against the alley wall which was doing most of the work of supporting her weight.

Human refugees who had ducked or dove for cover at the first shot slowly began to gather around the entrance to the alley, drawn irresistibly by morbid curiosity at the spectacle of violence.

Lilith bit back a yelp as she tried to transfer weight from her good right leg to her left which rippled from hip to toe with waves of fire. A second attempt found that it would bear some weight, showing that there were no broken bones, but would not be of much use otherwise. Of greater concern was the steady flow of blood that Lilith found herself trying to staunch with a large piece of shirt that she tore free from her outer garment. The wound was deep, and would have to be treated professionally if not quickly.

The crowd was gathering though, human as they were, and Lilith could not be sure if the slain Zentraedi were truly alone. She had to move and shrank as quickly as her good leg would carry her deeper into the alley and toward the promise of escape at the other end.

"What the hell was that about?", asked the man whose cart had been overturned by Lilith as he worked furiously to gather his belongings before the crowd got of the mind to help themselves.

"Who knows?", replied a stranger who only took it upon himself to answer because he had been asking the same question inwardly. It didn't really matter why it had happened, these things often did in Brasilia. It was rare that it should happen so openly, and in a relatively quiet and uncontested area of the city. Of course, this day the general assumptions of what were "quiet" and "uncontested" areas were off.

What was important now was to be gone if and when the repercussions of what had happened came to pass.

The stranger was about to step over the spilled possessions of the man's cart under the lighter load of the knapsack he carried when the Zentraedi, the first to have been shot, gave an almost convulsive twitch. His shotgun lay nearby, and not sure of what would happen next the human crowd took a step back as a second twitch gave way to a more deliberate if not clumsy motion. The flailing of an arm turned into a conscious effort by the alien to roll himself off his face, and out of the pool of blood that had formed about his head on the sidewalk. His face, once turned skyward, showed the beginning of the furrow plowed out by the single bullet, beginning at the top of his forehead and splitting his scalp under a continuing profusion of blue blood.

The crowd evaporated, moving on with urgency but a forced calm about them. Brave opportunists made off with the weapons the two aliens had been armed with, possibly with no better reason than they could. Dazed, Gnod made no attempt to stop them, but after a few moments helped to clear his head enough for deliberate thought, he made his first attempt to get to his feet.

181


	9. The Cold-Chamber Shot

**Chapter Eight**

 **The "Cold Chamber" Shot**

"Funny how a bullet is really a tool of history-."

"Just one can change everything that follows. And history is kind of like a bullet too. Once it gets going downrange, there's no stopping it. You just have to hope you're not in its way."

"Funny."

\- Corporal Jordan Gyle

Rifleman, ASC

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

There was a collective funk that radiated off the individual recruits of Training Platoon 6045, and seemed to follow and rise off of the unit like a mist.

Like most funks, it had begun almost inperceivably and in individuals within the platoon upon whom Nature had bestowed shorter fuses. Among these it had begun in the rain with the first disciplinary running of The Tangle- and had continued to build with each subsequent negotiation of the course.

Like most funks also, it was a contagious thing in a group of cold and fatigued individuals and as such had spread.

The funk had spread almost uniformly by the time The Tangle was no longer being run and was well entrenched in each recruit trainee by the time they had been reviewed with a disparaging eye by the RTC commander, Colonel Fitzpatrick. By the time the training platoon had borne the felled Wall back to where it had stood only hours earlier with the promise of an early day of hard labor to restore it to follow, the funk was on a simmer with each recruit trainee and building to a boil.

Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson had felt this kind of funk before. He had felt it mostly in the context of sports- on the football or rugby field. It was the particular breed of funk that was the resentment of the team for a loss, and the team's weighing of options for the designation of a scapegoat.

Andy had felt this resentment before of course, and had been part of the mob demanding expiation for an individual's sin of failure that had brought the consequence of a loss down on the team. He had also unfortunately been the sinner from time to time, most notably once having kicked the ball into his own team's goal during a hotly contested semi-finals match.

Like the funks that Andy had either been party to or the object of, this one had taken on a target who was as obvious as he was unspoken.

Andy, like Cedric the recipient of many a reproachful glare over the course of the afternoon and early evening had come to understand through the non-verbal messages and body language of the rest of the platoon that while not devoid of blame he was not to be the object of the collective wrath.

Averted eyes and quiet grumblings before and after evening assembly and all throughout supper had placed the mark solidly on Cattermole.

Mob mentality and action had its own form of silent communication Andy had found in his dealings with it. It required little if any verbal exchange to give it commonly agreed form once it was in motion. It was perhaps the strongest connection Man had left to the same primitive instinct that was kin to that which allowed flocked birds in flight or fish in a school to uniformly and cohesively choose a direction of movement or change it in the face of an obstacle or threat.

The difference was that in this application of the instinct, the group was the threat and invariably the object of its malevolent intentions knew it.

If Cattermole knew it, he was either deliberately appearing to be or was foolishly unconcerned as he draped his towel on a hook just outside of the male shower room that was far enough removed from the doorway to prevent its dampening by the spray of the shower heads that had come on moments before. Other towels joined it on other hooks as the shower room began to fill, though perhaps by the same mentality of mob versus victim none occupied the hooks to either side of Cattermole's towel.

Andy felt the tension mounting around him as the striking moment approached. He found his heart to not just be racing, but literally pounding against his ribs with enough force that he expected the bar of soap suspended around his neck by its rope to dance with each pulse. It may have been this pounding and the tightness of his throat that muted him as Recruit Trainee Fisher Kingsley and the two next largest brutes in the training platoon plowed him aside as they made a direct line for Cattermole who now, as naked as they, was immersed in a shroud of steam beneath a showerhead with his back turned to the impending threat.

Andy wasn't certain what words would have come had they been able to escape the drinking straw passage his throat had become-. A mandate to Kingsley to stay his assault? A warning to Cattermole to defend himself from it? Maybe just an ambiguous utterance to serve both purposes.

It didn't matter because Andy's vocal cords had grown rigid and would not make a sound.

It also didn't matter because Kingsley never made contact with Cattermole in the way he clearly intended.

Cattermole spun on Kingsley, his right arm extending as he came about in a blur of explosive force. Clenched in his right fist was the rope of his soap cake, the mass of which made contact with Kingsley's jaw with a sound that Andy had heard cricket balls make when struck with a paddle wielded by a strong hitter.

What part of Kingsley's reaction was his own recoil and what part was the actual force from the blow Andy was unsure of, but Andy did clearly see the lucidity wink out of the hulking would-be assaulter as his arms went up in his own defense a fraction of a second too late to do him any good. Kingsley's two accomplices wore shocked expressions, mouths agape, at the swift brutality of the smaller recruit trainee's pre-emptive strike. Kingsley himself, in the eternity of the moment it was taking for events to unfold, was teetering back on his heels and promising to go over much as The Wall had earlier that day- ironically putting the young man on the course to this very moment.

Kingsley did not go over though as Cattermole was upon him the way a wolf might go at a larger stag to bring it down- only Cattermole did not go for the throat and not with the intention of putting Kingsley down.

Cattermole had a handful of scrotum that he lifted to the tearing point and twisted with a shrill yelp from Kingsley. The larger trainee was fully aware of his surroundings again and was now on his toes, arms flailing ineffectively to beat away Cattermole who had so swiftly turned the tables on him.

Utter shock gripped the other trainees in the shower and paralyzed them as Cattermole rushed Kingsley into a corner with only the physical effort required to raise and twist an arm.

" _Brilliant idea, you miserable cocksuker!.._ ", Cattermole hissed as Kingsley's bare, wet flesh slapped loudly into the tiled wall arresting his escape, " _What now?! Any thoughts?"_

The shock that had frozen the other recruit trainees in the shower with the grotesque absurdity of Cattermole's approach to mastering the situation thawed, and they moved in to intercede. An additional centimeter's twist of Cattermole's wrist and a sharp cry from Kingsley stopped the mob in its tracks.

" _Hear this, the lot of you-!"_ , Cattermole snarled, shifting his gaze from trainee to trainee as he held Kingsley immobile.

Andy started at the blaze in the trainee's eyes. It shone a recognition that a beating was likely coming and an acceptance of it. What gave Andy pause, and what he suspected gave the others around him pause was the total absence of fear in the acceptance- even a hint of invitation.

" _You wanna have at me?! Call it down! You remember two things though-! First, you're beating the shit outta me because you were all fucking sheep to the only idea anyone had the ballocks to put up! And second, if you leave so much as a breath of life in me when you're done, you'll get it back ten fold! -So, who's first?!"_

The mob had still not lost completely the feel of a pack of wolves shrinking its circle on prey to strike, but the prevailing sense was that all were waiting for _someone else_ to strike.

Cedric took a half-step forward before Cattermole's grip tightened and a near airless whimper from Kingsley stopped him.

" _Hey, let `im go-."_ , Cedric said quietly and urgently, but not forcefully. Despite the hiss of showerheads, Cedric's own voice sounded loud to him as it bounced back from the tile walls.

" _Hey-_.", Cattermole replied mimicking Cedric's plaintive tone, " _Why don't you give me a good reason this cunt lummox shouldn't join the eunuch choir?"_

"O'Shae charging in here to find you with another recruit trainee's balls in your hand comes to mind.", Andy suggested, standing in just behind Cedric.

Andy normally would have just allowed Cedric to handle delicate situations as this one was showing itself to be- he had a leveler head and was more diplomatic. The possibility of being involved either directly or indirectly in two incidents in one day requiring O'Shae's "creative" application of discipline was more than Andy could stand though. In addition to the acutely uncomfortable adolescent confrontation with a borderline homo-sadistic situation, the specter of what O'Shae would do if he discovered the stand-off was enough to force an attempt by Andy to intervene.

Mostly it was the latter he assured himself.

"Back off.", Andy said to the pack in need of an alpha male. A hesitation was the only reply.

" _Back off!"_ , Andy repeated, raising his voice enough that it actually did echo in the way that Cedric had feared his voice doing. The added volume, or perhaps the shared fear that O'Shae actually would come storming in at any moment caused the ring of trainees to loosen and then dissolve into clusters of twos and threes.

"Okay, Aunt Moggie-.", Cedric said, resuming his efforts after Andy's assistance, "Let the bugger go- he's turning blue for Christ's sake."

Cattermole grunted, "-Most action the bastard's likely ever had."

Before Cattermole released Kingsley's genitals from his grasp, Andy noticed a line of raised dots running up the inside length of his arm. For the same reason that the grapple between Cattermole and Kingsley had made Andy uncomfortable, he had never really made a point of studying another recruit trainee's body in the shower (though the thought of such an exercise with Pamela Dunn wasn't totally unpleasant- _damn hormones_ ) to include Cattermole. The raised dots caught his attention now for whatever reason, and were roughly the size and color of pencil erasers that had nearly been worn down to the metal ring. Andy counted over a dozen at a glance with the hint of more on the young man's chest beneath a thickening field of chest hair.

 _Scars?_

Cattermole's hand released and jerked back from the repulsive task it had been employed in almost as though it had a mind of its own. The scars, or marks, or whatever they had been were lost from sight as Kingsley settled onto the flats of unsteady feet and air rushed into his lungs.

The pairs and threes of recruit trainees jostled for a moment and seemed to threaten reconstitution into the pack of wolves again.

Andy was amazed to find himself stepping between Cattermole and as many of the other young men as he could face down. A moment's realization and panic that he could not possibly have fended them all off eased some by the fact that Cedric, whom he'd brushed aside in his rush to defense was by his side for whatever came next.

 _"He said back off!"_ , Cedric growled, bristling and balling his fists to look as intimidating as a naked teenager could hope to be., " _It's over._ "

"Yeah-.", added Andy, "Unless you blokes want another four hours of The Tangle- _which I don't_ , thank you very much."

The real threat of a midnight running of The Tangle- or ten- seemed to firmly ground any flights of fancy that involved the beating of Cattermole into a senseless pulp. Reluctantly, grudgingly the crowd began to disperse under grumbles of defeated but not quite abandoned vigilantism. Even Kingsley had quietly retreated, there being no saving of face in anything short of stomping the life out of the smaller victor to the contest.

"So that puts you on _my_ side?"

Cedric and Andy turned to face Cattermole who had posed the question as casually as if he'd been asking how they would best like to pair off for a tennis match.

"That puts us on the side of those who can admit their own culpability in things.", Andy said, contemplating the truly stupid position he'd placed himself and Cedric in. Morality aside, it would have just been a lot less complicated to watch Aunt Moggie take a pounding.

" _Don' use such big words, gov'nor- ye're hurtin' me brain."_ , Cattermole said in a forced cockney mocking the speech Kingsley came by legitimately. The recruit trainee eased by the two who had rendered him aide, abandoning the shower room like the others before the facility had been fully put to its proper use. The showers would run for a minute longer or so before being cut off automatically, but it was clear that no one was interested in risking what might come of prolonged mingling.

"You'll at least remember to wash your hands before you eat, won't you?", Cedric called after Cattermole, "- _You're welcome!_ \- Fucking wanker."

Andy dipped his head under a shower stream to at least rinse the accumulated grit of the day out of hair that had been cut too short to hold it.

"I think we're in it now, Cedric."

Cedric walked under the stream of another showerhead and was successful in fully wetting himself before the water flow was stopped.

"Yeah? Well, we've been in it for days now. Everyone'll either cool off or we'll just scrap it out."

Andy shook his head at how readily Cedric accepted the possibility of a fight that there was no way of winning. It was a mellowed form of Cattermole's early display, though Andy wasn't sure Cedric saw it.

"Well, we'll have Aunt Moggie on our side for the scrum at least."

"Yeah, your ballocks won't be in immediate jeopardy."

"Did you catch a look at his arm?"

"Only the part that was wringing Kingsley's dangly bits."

"No.", Andy explained, not quite sure of what the explanation should be, "Scars or something."

"Christ, don't tell me he's a cutter."

"No, not like that-. Just watch that one though. Life of violence and all- I'm not sure if we can count on that one being all with it upstairs."

Cedric found something in Andy's last thought that was amusing to him and gave a brief laugh, "Who at Falkirk is?"

 **Brasilia**

Sub-Commander Fral looked out from the third floor of the office building that Yeshta's men had temporarily taken possession of to serve as a staging point for the rally that Yeshta would address soon on the Plaza Internaَcional below. The tempered glass windows vibrated slightly with the sounds that resulted from the massing of thousands and gave physical manifestation to the common charge that the crowd exuded.

Fral was becoming accustomed to the manner in which goals had to be pursued and achieved on this world with the micronians, but he was not so far removed from the pure warrior's ways of his past to not recognize the energy the Zentraedi audience was radiating. It was the same tension a warrior felt all around him before battle.

This did not scare Fral, but being a student of the ways of the micronians (and a considerably better one than his slain lord, Dornian) he was wise enough to know that if the energy of these warriors was indeed channeled into battle, the long term outcome might not favor their cause of escaping exile on this world. Like many puzzling qualities of the micronians, direct action did not always gain its objective. Fral did not attempt to delude himself into believing that he was ready to think like a micronian, but he knew well enough that releasing combatively the energy on the plaza below would not further anyone's best interests.

Fral suspected that Yeshta knew this too. Actually he was certain of it, but Yeshta had in the time Fral had spent with him exhibited signs that he was a warrior whose core had been tainted by the ways of the micronians. His desires were still pure, his plans for his followers still sound, but his methods showed signs of the misdirection and deception that made micronians so unpredictable outside of combat.

What concerned Sub-Commander Fral was that he felt the micronians must have suspected this too. There was no reasonable way that they could not after Yeshta's "message" to the Southern Cross nights before that had killed Lowe and his party of emissaries. Fral was coming to know Yeshta and still trusted that with perhaps some minor deviations, he was still leading on the path to escape. The micronians- the ASC particularly- did not have the same benefit.

What did they think?

This was the question that scared Fral.

What intentions did they perceive Yeshta as having? The answer to that question would determine greatly the course of things to come, and possibly sooner than later. Fral, despite the deteriorating chaos of Brasilia in the past twenty-four hours, had sensed restraint on the part of the ASC in dealing with the Zentraedi insurrection. Combat had been intense, but sporadic. Now though, with such numbers gathered in a central location-. Was this not an ideal place for a counterstrike? If not a counterstrike, then at the least a concerted effort to contain and possibly detain Yeshta's most ardent followers?

Fral shook himself free of the thought, or more to the point the way of thinking. He was trying to think too much like a micronian, and it was causing his head to throb.

Yeshta would speak soon- though only he, despite Fral's proximity to Yeshta's position in power, knew what exactly was to be said.

This gave Fral pause as well.

Looking out over the speaking platform whose construction was even now being completed under the armed supervision of a dozen of Yeshta's most capable bodyguards, it would have been easy to believe that Yeshta himself was going unprotected. This could not have been further from the truth as the office building was swamped with armed sentries and guards, three of whom stood silent watch over Fral- for his _security._

Between their stoic silence and his own churning thoughts, Fral had all but forgotten their company when a new party arrived just outside of the door to the office suite in which Fral was standing to converse quietly but urgently with one of the guards posted there. There were many details still to be overseen and little time to do it in, and for this reason Fral suspected that some of his silent company was to be reassigned. This was fine by Fral.

A guard addressed Fral directly- the first exchanged words in over an hour- ending Fral's supposition.

"Lord-.", the guard said, "A small group of officers is requesting to speak with Action Commander Yeshta."

Yeshta, Fral had learned from his brief direct acquaintance with members of the leader's immediate staff, preferred if not demanded periods of solitude prior to his speaking events and proportionate to their importance. For that reason Fral had not seen his superior all morning, though he knew Yeshta to be on the premises. At moments like this, it was wholly appropriate that those wanting an audience with Yeshta should first meet Fral for his assessment of their business and his determination of whether it warranted intruding on Yeshta's privacy. What struck Fral as odd in this request was the keen sense that the party requesting to meet Yeshta was quite near- having penetrated the layers of security with greater ease than should have been permitted.

"What officers?", Fral asked with calm interest, "Are they known to you?"

"No, Lord.", the guard replied, "Their escort though is known to the warrior who saw them to this level. He is a trusted warrior."

"Though they would not identify themselves-?", Fral persisted, returning to his point that touched on the breeching of even basic security procedures.

"One only identified himself as Action Commander Kevtok- though he would not say of what command, Lord.", the guard explained, "What are your orders?"

Intrigued, and still with the guard of three warriors armed with shotguns, Fral decided that even if the business of these "officers" was not worthy of Yeshta's time, meeting with them would grant the leader the time needed to exit to the speaking platform without distraction. If their business was important, they would wait to speak with Yeshta after.

"Have they been checked for weapons and explosives?", Fral asked. A prudent question because even as the final screening element to Yeshta, Fral had no desire to take a bullet or be shredded by a bomb intended for another.

"Yes, Lord.", the guard assured Fral confidently, "They are unarmed."

Fral nodded, "See them in then and remain outside."

From inside the office suite Fral could hear the door to the stairwell just paces down the hall open and the thud of boots approach.

Fral did not recognize any of the four micronized Zentraedi who entered the room, but he had not expected to. The male of the warrior grade was clearly detailed to and fresh from the field. His clothing was soiled, mismatched, and worn but showed he was from an operational area in which these factors mattered little and a warrior was content to have what he could get. His smell and level of grooming also spoke volumes of the conditions he was accustomed to. This warrior was easy for Fral to place at a glance.

The three "officers", two males and a female, were considerably harder to fix in terms of origin and nature of their service. The first detail of their appearance that caught Fral's attention that may have escaped a micronian's was their dress. They wore Zentraedi utility coveralls that defied easy explanation. It was possible that a creative tailor had recreated the style of the garments from memory or detailed description, but this seemed unlikely to Fral. The coveralls were too precise in their appointments and had the appearance of garments that had been mass-produced and not hand crafted. This presented something of paradox though as Fral knew that the process of micronization was one imposed by humans, and that Zentraedi equipment to include uniforms was only manufactured for warriors in their true size.

If the utility coveralls these three wore left some room for debate about their origin, their boots did not. Each wore Zentraedi field boots, distinctive in both their style and the synthetic material they were made of. There was little chance that a cobbler would have so accurately reproduced three pairs of these standard-issue field boots, and no chance that it could have been done with the authentic material.

Still, they wore no unit insignia nor badge of rank. They were objects of curiosity, but still anonymous strangers.

"I am Fral.", said Yeshta's newest and highest lieutenant, realizing that much time had passed in silence between he and the new arrivals.

"Rank?", asked the largest "officer" of the group. His tone was not aggressive, but rung of a more rigorous adherence to The Warrior's Code than most Zentraedi exhibited in their exile.

"Sub-Commander.", Fral replied, "Though I could not prove it to you if you asked me to."

"I take your word as a Warrior.", the one Fral assumed was Kevtok said bluntly, "Will you accept mine?"

Fral's first instinct was to say yes, as this Zentraedi male had already earned credibility as a warrior if nothing else in Fral's mind. In these times the identity and more importantly the motives of strangers were unclear though and caution was always justified.

"That depends on what you have to say to me. Action Commander Yeshta has many enemies, even among our own kind. My duty to him demands skepticism."

Kevtok nodded his understanding and said, "Your Warrior, Diharon, serves you well and said you would show caution. You may believe this though-."

Kevtok unzipped the front of his utility coveralls to expose his chest and the Te'Dak Tohl insignia laser-stenciled into the flesh of his left breast.

Fral reacted much as Diharon had without knowing the parallel. He gasped with the conditioned shock that the symbol evoked and stepped back as though putting distance between himself and a venomous snake he had accidentally come across.

The presence of Te'Dak Tohl had a significance that did not escape Fral- they had but one purpose in serving The Masters and this was known though until only moments ago Fral had believed the enforcers to be figures of lore. In an act of contrition, Fral began to go to his knees but was stopped mid-act by a gesture from Kevtok.

"I am Action Commander Kevtok , Serhot Ran of the 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl under the command of Supreme General Krymina. These details mean nothing to you, I know, but as time is a critical factor for us I will explain what is important.", Kevtok said evenly but with emphasis as Fral returned to his feet, "First, we are not here to punish the remaining elements of Dolza's failed campaign to capture Zor's Battle Fortress for The Robotech Masters. The Masters are finished- I have seen their home world with my own eyes and they are no longer a viable force in the universe. Supreme General Krymina has determined that if the Zentraedi- _all Zentraedi_ \- are not to share in the Fate of the Tirolian civilization, that she must seize Zor's research and this world with its ability to support growth of The Flower of Life for our use and before the Invid are able to locate it. Mobilization and preparation for this campaign are well underway, but we lack basic intelligence and knowledge of this world. This is where Duty demands that you assist us."

Fral was in the difficult position of realizing that he was completely out of his scope to be able to speak for Yeshta, and that what Kevtok would say to him would alter the objectives he had set radically.

"Lord", Fral replied, "I am only Yeshta's chief lieutenant- he requires an audience with you to discuss what is expected of us in greater detail."

"You can arrange this?"

"I will arrange this, but Yeshta is to speak very shortly to the assembly of warriors you passed through. Since the time of our marooning on this world, and what he has always promised the warriors following him has been to return as many warriors as he can rally to space and eventually to the service of The Masters. If he should suddenly alter that plan- especially given the volatile state relations between we Zentraedi and the micronians are now in- the situation could explode beyond Yeshta's ability to control."

Kevtok shook his head firmly dismissing any notion of disorder, "No, absolutely not. Turmoil at this moment would be highly counterproductive. Furthermore, at this juncture no one whose knowledge of it is not absolutely essential must know of our presence and our mission. Time is short, but the need to maintain order and secrecy of Supreme General Krymina's plans supersede that issue. Allow Yeshta to speak to the warriors without knowledge of us. I will speak with him after."

"As you wish, Lord.", Fral complied, "I will-."

Fral was cut short as one of the guards who had escorted Kevtok's party into the office suite stepped through the doorway again with a dire expression on his face. Under the weight of what Kevtok had just said to him, Fral was curt with the guard.

"I ordered you to remain outside, Warrior!"

The guard's head dipped apologetically, "Pardon me, Lord- but I thought this required your immediate attention. One of Action Commander Yeshta's personal guards has been killed by a micronian, and one wounded."

Fral could not conceive of this having happened with the Zentraedi presence in the plaza and asked, " _Here?_ "

"No, Lord.", the guard explained, "Other members of their detachment said the two left their post to pursue a suspicious micronian female roughly an hour ago. Only one returned, wounded."

Kevtok, though unacquainted with the details of the situation was clearly concerned as his expression darkened immediately, "What sentry post were these warriors standing?"

The guard, unaware of the exchange between Kevtok and Fral looked to the Sub-Commander for consent before replying. When he received the nod from Fral, he said, "The guards were standing watch at Action Commander Yeshta's speaking platform."

Remembering Fral's statement about Yeshta's many enemies, Kevtok was certain that action was required and was quick to let Fral know it.

"Put absolutely every guard you can muster into sentry positions in defense of Yeshta.", Kevtok directed Fral, "And we must speak to this wounded warrior. Yeshta is too vital to take any chances."

"Of course.", Fral agreed, then saying to the guard who had brought them this information said, "Bring us to this warrior and then personally see that every guard who is not directly attending to Yeshta's security are put into key positions on the Plaza."

"Yes, Lord."

Lilith strained inadvertently against Corporal Gyle and fought back cries of pain as Sergeant Oakes examined the next wound to her upper left thigh. Removal of her blood-matted trousers had revealed that three buckshot pellets had entered her upper leg and hip. With the meager contents of a ASC standard-issue first aid kit, Oakes had managed to remove the first pellet that had lodged itself in a shallow wound at her hip bone, but the second wound was clearly causing him to hesitate. The fact that the pain of the first pellet's removal had been searing, the examination of the second wound had been nearly as bad, and that Lilith had repeatedly refused the single issue of morphine in the kit with its side-effects made her grateful for Oakes' apparent reluctance to proceed.

"Hold her still, Gyle.", Oakes said calmly, using the daylight abundant atop the construction site to his best ability to examine the second wound.

"Yeah, well she ain't exactly the submissive type.", Gyle protested as he tightened his hold on Lilith to minimize her movements.

Aware of the reasons for Oakes' request, Lilith did her best to remain still as flame seemed to course through the veins along the left side of her body.

Oakes shook his head, "No-. These last two are too deep. We don't dare try to get them out without a real doctor and hospital."

" _Great!_ ", Lilith panted through clenched teeth as one fighting constant agony could be expected to, " _Can you stop dicking around with my leg now?!"_

Oakes sprayed a powerful anti-septic onto the wounds without warning, eliciting a yelp from Lilith who managed to catch it midstream and bite it back.

"That's going to hurt by the way.", Oakes tardily warned.

Lilith laughed at the strange breed of combat-spawned humor, replying with the giddiness of endorphins released by the pain, " _You are such a prick! Do you know that?"_

Oakes grinned knowing that Lilith knew that he meant her no harm, "Yep- but not as much as when I do this-."

Lilith saw the open issue envelope of clotting agent just as Oakes began to shake it onto her bleeding wounds. The sting was not immediate as with the application of the anti-septic, but when the burn began it took with a vengeance.

Lilith beat a closed fist against the concrete of the unfinished building's roof as Oakes began to bind her leg in sterile gauze bandaging. He nodded to the bandage lower on her thigh from the wound she had sustained before their meeting earlier in the week.

"You starting a collection of these?"

"Occupational hazard.", Lilith explained wryly, "Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure.", Oakes said, "But in a minute, I'm going to want you to put some weight on that leg so we know that you can move on it."

"Let's talk about what you should be getting ready to do", Lilith said abrasively as she glanced at the M-163R sniper's rifle that rested on its bipod and stock beneath a tarp in the improvised sniper's nest, "Because if you don't make this shot, I'm gonna get up on my good leg and kick both your asses."

"I think she'll be able to move on it.", Gyle said while checking his watch, "And she's right, we gotta get our game faces on."

"Okay then, start talking, ma'am.", Oakes said, concentrating to maintain an even tightness on his wrapping of her leg.

Lilith focused on the approaching moment and was grateful for the distraction. Recalling work she had done on the rifle in the hours before dawn and before when Oakes and Gyle had smuggled their gear into place at the construction site almost two kilometers down the avenue from Plaza Internaَcional, she said, "Okay, the detonator is wired into the trigger circuit. It's time delayed to account for the flight time on the bullet and a couple of other factors I won't get into."

"MacGyver stuff?", asked Oakes.

"MacGyver stuff.", affirmed Lilith, "Just worry about putting a hole in Yeshta, and everything else is taken care of."

Gyle snorted a cold laugh, " _Shit-_ I'm gonna put a hole in the _Earth_. Your boy won't come away as well-off."

"What's his name?", Action Commander Kevtok asked as he looked down on the blood-smeared face of the semi-coherent warrior laid out on the table before him.

A projectile round of micronian weapon design had split the warrior's scalp cleanly down the center and had even chipped significant bits out of his skull at the crown. At a glance, it was unclear how the warrior had managed to make it back to report what had happened, dazed as he was. He had made it back though, which told Kevtok that he had sufficient periods of lucidity to navigate a city in chaos to perform his duty. He would be able to speak.

"Gnod, Lord.", another warrior who clearly knew the wounded warrior said.

Kevtok took Gnod's bloodied head in his hands and turned it to face him. As the warrior's wandering eyes fixed on him, Kevtok spoke clearly to him, "Warrior Gnod- answer me. Where did this happen?"

The other scant details- that Gnod's companion had been slain and he wounded by a micronian female had been conveyed to Fral and Kevtok already- repeated actually- by the guard who had first brought them the news as he had led them back down the stairwell of the office building and into a room just inside a hall beyond the main entrance. The important fact of _where_ this had all taken place, the guard had not been able to say.

Kevtok had felt strongly that this event was an indicator of some greater threat. The micronian female had been seen acting suspiciously in the vicinity of the speaking platform that Yeshta was to be using, and though she had not been close enough to plant an explosive device by the reckoning of the other guards, Kevtok's instincts told him that her presence was in pursuit of an ill purpose. He could not justify the feeling with fact, but he could not deny it.

Finding this micronian would answer more questions, and with Fate's favor might thwart or at least hinder whatever larger plan she might be part of.

Gnod's lips moved in the shape of words, but his breath did not work to assist in their formation.

"Warrior, answer me- where did this happen?"

Gnod's lips continued to work without benefit to Kevtok who in an acto of last resort gave the warrior's head a shake as though the disconnected pieces within might rejoin for a moment's coherence.

 _"Where?"_

" _Copitas."_

The unfamiliar mingling of sounds did not register with Kevtok who was uncertain whether it was indeed a word or just the babblings of the mortally wounded.

" _Copitas."_ , Gnod repeated, saying the word with an assuredness that told Kevtok that this was not just an audible side effect of a rambling mind.

"What is this _Copitas_ thing he speaks of?", Kevtok asked as he wiped the tacky blood that had transferred from Gnod's head to his hands on the warrior's clothes where he could find patches that had not already been wetted from his bleeding.

Looks of puzzlement were exchanged between the officers and warriors who had been prisoners to this world and residents of Brasilia for some time. Kevtok felt a spark of irritation begin to flare in his brain that he'd gotten the answer from the dying warrior only to have no one around him capable of interpreting it.

"It is a word from one of the indigenous, micronian languages, Lord-.", Fral said, "I can tell by its structure- but I do not know its meaning."

"Lord-.", a warrior carrying a shotgun and clearly having the role of a guard said from where he stood in the small gathering, "I am a friend of Warrior Gnod, and I cannot be sure- but I believe _Copitas_ to be a café that he frequented with others not far from here."

" _Café?_ ", Kevtok fumbled with the word, "What is _café?-_ And where?"

"It is a micronian establishment", Fral explained quickly, "Intended for socialization and the consumption of food and beverages. Many warriors in our command have become quite fond of them. –Where, Warrior, is this _Copitas?_ "

The warrior showed signs of struggle in remembering which made Kevtok think for a moment that he would have to rattle another brain to make additional progress- but the warrior's face relaxed as it came to him.

"Just under an _artohl_ from here, Lord-. Five, six minutes at most at a rapid advance's pace."

Kevtok pointed at the warrior, " _You_ are coming with us to show me this place. Fral-."

"Yes, Lord?", Fral replied. If there was any question of the authenticity of Kevtok's claims about himself and his companions, or their purpose on the micronian world and in Brasilia- it did not matter. Fral sensed correctly that the officers and warriors around him loyal to Yeshta and to him also by association would have followed the orders issued by Kevtok had Fral decided to not. This was not an issue though as Fral was convinced that if not the creatures of legend they claimed to be, the three travelers come to Brasilia still had a measure of authority to demand Fral's service, and the expectation to have it.

"I will require another capable warrior familiar with this city, and we shall all require weapons..", Kevtok instructed, "Move every warrior you can find and arm into the assembly area around Yeshta's speaking platform to provide additional protection for him. No micronian should be allowed near, nor should any be allowed access even to the assembly area. See to those security details on this end, and we will see if we can locate this micronian female. If there is some threat to be found there, we will deal with it."

"Yes, Lord.", Fral complied and began to the issuing of his own orders in following his instructions.

 **The Amazon River Basin**

 _Oh, for the freedom of the high, thin air-._

Winters had in the first days of flight training with the RAF, many years before now, been told that flight, as an ability not natural to human beings was one of the most taxing of mental exercises. There were elements of flying, and particularly combat flying, that stood as polar opposites of human instinct- such as flying into a "hot zone" with the expectation of coming under fire, or in firing on an opponent once you came to the realization that a plane sent spiraling to the earth in flames often contained a person. Exercises such as these could be made easier or more acceptable through training and conditioning- almost to the point where the grave nature of these situations could have their emotional weight set aside and replaced by the cold calculation of necessity.

Almost.

Then there were the elements of combat aviation that were plugged into the most primal of human instincts. Fight or flee. Kill or be killed. Escape or perish. Even these instincts that in proper proportion to technical skill and tactical training could be fatal flaws in a pilot if not tempered.

Balancing the act of hastily fleeing an untenable situation with the method best suited to achieve escape was one of those practical applications of tempering instinct with training.

 _Oh, but if only for the high, thin air._

Had it only been the Valkyries of Knight Hawk and Vigilante Squadrons to be concerned with following Winters' and Mumuni's improvised surprise attack on Salvador Base, then perhaps a rapid climb to near the edge of space where the fighters could make full use of their impressive speed would have been a reasonable gamble Afterall, Winters and Mumuni had had muted the base- temporarily- by taking down their primary and secondary communication hardware (Winters had that in mind _partially_ when he fired his parting shots in leveling General Braddock's residence with its crown of radio and satellite arrays) and had hobbled any attempt to launch pursuit fighters- temporarily- by damaging the base's runways.

There was the possibility that at four times the speed of sound and skirting the outer edges of the atmosphere, two squadrons of Valkyrie Veritechs could have made their escape before the reason for fleeing became common knowledge to the greater ASC-dominated Control Zone. The fact that at the core of the attack by one technical ally on another was the destruction of God-only-knew how many tens if not hundreds of millions of credits in ASC budget-subsidizing narcotics did add an additional factor though.

Braddock and Mathias as his key action officer in the illicit were well–motivated to improvise to respond.

Whether it was by relay through a chopper's communications gear, by a field satellite radio, or by smoke signal (Winters indulged in the musing that they indeed had smoke to work with) Braddock would get word out. No doubt, there were other commanders involved in the same peripheral enterprise as he, and they would be keen to assist a colleague in avenging himself on the RDF upstarts who dared to meddle in ASC dealings within The Control Zone. For every other ASC element, there was the indisputable fact that for whatever reason two RDF squadrons had apparently gone rogue and in doing so had fired on ASC positions and personnel. Most squadron leaders, SAM, and AAA battery commanders needed little more justification than this to go "weapons hot" on those who most had been itching (even if secretly) to fire a shot at for years.

For the Valkyries, this was the greatest practical reason why the "high and fast" escape was ill-advised. "High and fast", in the final analysis, also meant "in the open".

There were other considerations too that returned to both issues of human nature and training.

One never left anyone behind.

For the Valkyries to escape "high and fast" would have been to leave the VC-33 cargo plane, its crew of three, plus Lyle and his ground crew behind and at the mercy of the ASC. Winters had seen ASC "mercy" and had inadvertently participated in it. He also knew that the judge and distributor of "mercy" would likely be Mathias, and Wang had already tasted of his judgment.

There would be no leaving of the VC-33.

The cargo plane, though fast and agile as cargo planes went, could not match the speed or performance of the Valkyries at any altitude. It was now in essence an iron ball and chain cuffed to a sprinter's ankle- but there was still the greater principle.

No one was to be left behind.

There would be no dash for freedom, which left only one option that Mumuni, still in command despite her new status as alleged traitor, had begun to execute ten seconds after rejoining the combined RDF flight at its head.

Terrain masking.

Drop into the topography of the land and weave a meandering course to your destination- avoiding contact and confrontation wherever possible. Had the ASC possessed AWACS aircraft that gazed down on hundreds of thousands of square kilometers with their all-seeing electronic eyes, the tactic would have been an act of futility. The ASC had no AWACS though, and flying low as the 32 Valkyries and single VC-33 were, dodging through valleys and behind hills, they could exploit the large visibility gaps in ASC ground-based radar that occurred at low altitudes.

Done right, it worked like a charm- and Winters had seen it work like a charm. Desert Storm, The Global War- adversaries whose eyes looked up instead of down inevitably had blind spots and when exploited one could fly a whole fighter wing through without him having a clue until the bombs started to fall.

Done wrong though-. Winters preferred to not think of all of the various incarnations of hell that would fall in on them if the tactic and the plan were executed incorrectly.

Mumuni and her section of Vigilantes was in the lead though, followed by Winters and his from Knight Hawk Squadron- so this treasonous band was at the least competently led. Lead Mumuni had, and from the first moment that she and Winters had joined up with their squadrons again with the smoke from Salvador Base still visibly rising in their wakes Mumuni had given quick and simple instructions, the last of which was for radio silence, and had led the staggered column that alternated between flights of Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadron with the VC-33 smack in the middle down to treetop level.

As the combined flight had dropped below the radar deck (low enough it seemed to Winters to suck birds from their nests) Mumuni had taken them west and in the absence of radio communication had announced her intentions as they applied to escape routes. Rio de Janeiro and its RDF base were to the southeast and well within the range of the VC-33 that did not benefit from the virtually limitless fuel supply of the Valkyries' protoculture-fusion engines, but the greatest density of ASC bases in The Control Zone lay in between.

No, even before the first turn in a northward direction the choice to escape in the direction of Venezuela was clear. Winters wondered how ambitious Mumuni was in her escape plans as their course wound through the hills and valleys of the rain forest with the constant direction of the town drunk on a sidewalk. Venezuela, still vital as an oil-producing asset in a world fueled more and more by bio-ethereal energy had a substantial RDF presence to speak of. Would she seek safe harbor there- or press on to the Caribbean? If Mumuni opted for the Caribbean, that meant certain sanctuary at any of a dozen RDF bases that the cargo plane could reach.

What Winters found himself wanting though, wanting more than anything as he kept his section in column with Mumuni's on the bucking thrill-ride of self-preservation she was dictating was to have the implacable green of jungle fall away for Caribbean blue. He wanted her to break radio silence to request a tanker for the VC-33 so they could fly straight on to Edwards and leave the hell of The Control Zone to the ASC who wanted it so badly. Winters wanted to see the scrubby, desert landscape and feel the blaze of its arid heat. He wanted to see Rio, Roxanna, The High Desert Pilot's Social Club, and even Rio's miserable, sickly cat, Lucky.

With a start as though surprised by a static shock, Winters realized that he was homesick for the place that until quite recently he considered the worst place on and the asshole of the Earth. The realization came at that moment too that his glimpses of the places and people he wanted so much to see on his return might be his last for a long time- if he were to see any of them at all.

Major General Butler would be waiting too, and despite their history and the base commander's magnanimity in overlooking and even outright ignoring his many personal and professional shortcomings- Winters knew Butler would have to wash his hands of him for what he had done.

So be it then. It was better to burn for one's principles than to flourish on their decay.

Wasn't it?

 **ASC Salvador Base**

Lt Col "Mojo" Mathias was no engineer and understood as he stood on the shattered shoulder of the runway apron why he could never be. Cavalier Squadron's Phantom interceptors were armed, fueled, manned, and in line drawn along by handling tractors wanting only for a sufficient length of runway to take off. Such a length of runway- _several runways_ to be precise- lay just beyond the gash gouged out of the runway ramps by Winters' 55mm GU-11 in the initiation of his own suicide. Had Winters had a functioning brain cell in the bourbon-soaked mass within his skull Mathias had realized after the shock of the surprise attack had faded, he would have shot up the runway mid-course, bisecting it and rendering it completely useless. Instead, Winters had tried to corral reciprocity by penning Salvador's fighters on the tarmac and in doing so left the runways perfectly serviceable.

Perfectly serviceable, but on the other side of a gulf of two meters of shattered concrete and upturned earth that may as well have been the breadth of an ocean for how quickly the base's facility engineers were helping Mathias across it. Soldiers on land movers and with shovels had quickly filled the gash that was roughly as deep as it was wide with the very dirt and concrete rubble that Winters' cannon shells had torn out of it, but filling the holes did not mark the end of the task. Mathias had submitted to the head engineer's interminable monologue about "insufficient soil pressure tolerances" and how the first Phantom nose wheel to roll over the filled gash would likely sink in to mid-strut. He had listened also to the beginnings of a squabble over whether the base had enough plate steel in storage to bridge the gap and how long it would be before the steel (stored in the warehouse next to the one that had been destroyed by plasma napalm canisters and was now a sagging, super-heated wreck) would be cool enough to use before he had pointed out the obvious solution that the engineers were now implementing.

The panels of hangar doors having been cut quickly but neatlyt by acetylene torch from their track frames that still stood in the structures with their centers missing were being laid down to bridge the runway apron with the viable concrete strips. Scarcely had the engineers directed two platoons of infantrymen volunteered into the brute labor task in laying the thin steel-framed aluminum sheets into place and the corners anchored crudely with spikes driven through them by pneumatic drivers than the first tractor hauling a Phantom began to cross it.

Mathias watched, breathlessly for a moment, as his plane was shuttled over slowly. Despite the sounds of a battle winding down, the damage control efforts to extinguish fires, and the whine and chop of orbiting helicopters that now served as observation and communications platforms Mathias could still hear the nerve-grating crunch of metal on rubble and the groan and squeal as it accepted weight in a way it had not been fashioned to do. As the rear landing wheels of the Phantom crossed the area where the gash had been shot into the runway, the edges of the metal panel rose slightly in a bow- but held. They settled again as the weight transferred through the panel to solid earth and a moment later the Phantom was across and being joined by a starting cart.

" _Fuckin' A!"_ , Mathias howled triumphantly as it became clear that he could have his squadron airborne and in pursuit in only a few more minutes.

To this point the lieutenant colonel had been focused on the ferrying of his squadron into a position for take-off, and had paid little attention to an officer from the air operations center who had set up shop to the side of the activity on the runway apron. Mathias, needing him now, noticed the captain and his supporting staff of four junior officers and NCOs who with use of hand radios for relay with the operations center were marking a map spread out over the hood of the land rover that had brought them to the air field.

"Colonel!", the captain called, seeing that the pilot would be needing the little information he had shortly.

Mathias joined the captain at the map as a second Phantom began to cross the improvised bridge, "What do you have?"

"Not much.", the captain admitted without apology as he pointed with a grease pencil to marks he had made on the plastic cover to the map, "Here's the last position we had on them, thirty-one kilometers out and to the north. The chopper lost them at that point because they dipped below his radar horizon and slipped out of range. We figure they're flying low to evade our radar, but the word is going out as quick as we can spread it to have an eye open for two squadrons of Veritechs with a single cargo hauler in tow."

Mathias pored over the map, knowing from time in the theater where established ASC positions were located. With primary communications to the outside world out of commission (thanks to Winters) there was no knowing where ASC field units might be located and brought into play, but this was hardly important to Mathias. He was looking at exactly what Winters had to base his escape on. The Valkyrie pilots wouldn't dare try to make an InfoLink connection with an RDF AWACS or satellite lest the radio traffic divulge their position. No, they were trying to slip away quietly meaning they had only the force data stored in their onboard tactical databases.

Mathias drew a crude line with his finger, "Get on the horn with anyone who has birds up right now and tell them to stay east of his line."

"East?", the captain asked noting that the line Mathias had indicated was just west itself of the area of heavy ASC control, "Those bastards are likely heading north in a zig-zag, sir, and almost definitely west of that line. We'd do better to scour the whole region between-."

"And take aircraft off station as there's a fucking ditto uprising going down?", Mathias asked, offsetting his desire to see Winters obliterated with a sense of practical necessity, "No-. No, we know where the rat is going-. I just want other units to keep him going in that direction. I plan to be outside his hole when he peeks his head out and grab `im."

"Where do you think he's going, Colonel?", the captain asked, aware of the numerous RDF bases in Venezuela and along the east coast of Central America that could serve as a destination.

"The only place he's going to feel safe now.", Mathias said as he began to jog in the direction of his aircraft, "Home."

 **UES** _ **Hyperion**_

 **140Km East of Panama**

Vice Admiral Nicole K. Coleridge watched the slow progress of a track that represented her carrier's returning bomber squadrons through the three-dimensional space of the CIC's holographic plotting table. An emergency call for air support had come from RDF bases in southwestern Venezuela proximal to a strategic oil storage and pumping station in the hour just before dawn, and _Hyperion_ being well within striking range had quickly thrown her entire air arm into the sky.

Adventurer II attack-bombers from the carrier had proven valuable in augmenting the air arms of the regional RDF bases and would be returning with empty hard-points having been called into play by the operational commander on station. A breakfast of steak and eggs (a tradition aboard _Hyperion_ for squadrons returning from combat sorties) would be awaiting the pilots and their WSOs in one of the ship's galleys.

The serving of the victor's breakfast to the pilots was only a coincidental indication of local time aboard the carrier. Vice Admiral Coleridge had entered the CIC just as the sun had begun to first lighten the eastern horizon, and given the continuous and building reports of Zentraedi malcontent unrest in the Control Zone it was likely that she would not leave it for a brief period of rack time until after the sky had darkened in the west. The CIC was a world devoid of windows save the figurative electronic ones provided for her and her command staff's informational needs. The most visible signs of time's passage- the sun's journey across the sky- would go unnoticed.

The world changed quickly in the modern age. Vice Admiral Coleridge, as commander of the _Hyperion_ battle group guarding the Caribbean Sea understood this- today better than ever. Twenty-four hours before her assignment had been a relatively quiet and routine one: patrol the waters of the Caribbean Sea to safeguard the ports and coastal installations and wait for other tasking as may be required. Then suddenly, as it often did, the world had changed. For reasons that were wholly unimportant for her purposes The Control Zone had begun to unravel. So dramatic had been the change that decision makers further up the chain than she had decided at around the time that the last of Coleridge's attack-bombers were leaving _Hyperion_ 's deck that two of her sister carriers and their battle groups should be moved into the Caribbean as well to support her efforts. UES _Atlas_ and UES _Vulcan_ could be seen making steady but slower courses toward the area of operations from the mid-Atlantic and South Atlantic respectively and would both be on station within the next twenty-four hours.

The movement of the other two battle groups, while overall quite significant to Coleridge's short-term operational future were still not on the front burners of her mind. The position and movements of her Valkyrie fighter squadrons was in the forefront of her thoughts, and for a vague but troubling reason. An Army of the Southern Cross communication made in the clear and intercepted by one of _Hyperion'_ s airborne Cat's Eye AWACS planes and received by the carrier's Signals Intelligence staff had spoken of an intentional strike by RDF forces on an Army of the Southern Cross base deep inside The Control Zone. Subsequent mention in the clear of the incident, or of the intended ASC response had been nil- but coded communications particularly between ASC bases possessing air contingents had gone through the proverbial roof. The skies over the Control Zone, normally patrolled in a situationally appropriate fashion by the ASC was now choked with aircraft. It seemed that anything in the ASC inventory that could fly was flying- and most of what could fly could be counted on to be armed.

What concerned Coleridge most at the moment was the intentions of the ASC in a situation that was at best unclear to her. In truth, assessing _intentions_ did not factor into her responsibilities as an RDF Battle Group Commander as much as _capabilities._ Any one of the ASC squadrons she saw airborne was _capable_ of carrying a wide variety of weapons that could be used against an RDF base or even against the _Hyperion_ should the _intention_ shift in that direction.

Assessing capability was easy in comparison to assessing intention which was, afterall trying to see into someone's heart. Prudence demanded a defensive posture based on a potential foe's _capabilities_ first, and refined to address their _intentions_ later.

"Admiral, ma'am.", said the head of the SIGINT staff, drawing Coleridge's attention out from her thoughts again, "We're starting to get some message fragments out of our decoding effort."

Coleridge gave her full attention to the lieutenant commander and noted that the carrier's Tactical Actions Officer was also listening keenly, "Go ahead-."

"We only have fragments, Admiral, but it looks like the ASC is ordering its air units to shoot on sight.", said the lieutenant commander, "We're still hacking at it to try and get the full picture, but this particular ASC code is proving hard to crack."

Coleridge said to her SIGINT lead, "I want full messages, _yesterday._ "

"Aye, ma'am.", complied the junior officer understanding clearly the Vice Admiral's meaning and reason for emphasis. She was spinning up to make critical decisions and needed every shred of information she could lay eyes on to support them.

"TAO-.", Coleridge said to the other officer, "Have flight ops put our Adventurers into orbit outside of the outer marker and have a tanker top them off. I want two Valkyrie squadrons back on the boat as quickly as they can get here and re-armed for intercept duty."

"Aye, ma'am."

Coleridge added, "And contact Fleet-. Make sure they're aware of what we're seeing and inform them that I intend to challenge any ASC air units crossing the coast into the Caribbean."

"Aye, ma'am."

 **RDF Camp Conrad**

Ten minutes out from Camp Conrad, the pilot at the controls of the Lakota slick had warned Lt. Whilite that she would be putting him down into a "hot LZ". Two minutes out Whilite, pressed into the narrow space between the pilot and copilot's seats had gotten his first glimpse of exactly what the pilot's definition of "hot" was.

When Whilite had first seen the RDF Army outpost only days before, it had just materialized beneath him like a pitfall opening underfoot- a pocket of deforested dirt and neatly arranged pre-fabricated structures in an endless sea of wilderness. There was no mistaking the exact point where Conrad lay today.

A drifting cloud of smoke connected to the forest in a rising column that showed no signs of thinning. Like flies hovering around carnage, other Lakotas could be seen dipping into or rising out of the haze and departing for points unknown. Gunship variants flew broad circles around the smoke column and occasionally would show the zip of rapid laser fire from their door guns at unseen targets beneath the jungle canopy.

" _Jesus-."_ , muttered Whilite, not quite completing the blasphemous utterance as the Lakota ducked and wove its way in toward Camp Conrad and granted the lieutenant a glimpse over the rim and into the cauldron itself.

Storage houses, barracks areas, boardwalk paths, and the grounds in general so hard-won from the jungle and meticulously maintained by the engineers was a pock-marked shambles of smoldering debris. It took Whilite a moment to recognize that not all of the structures that had been standing at the time he had last seen Conrad had fallen to apparent mortar attack- but enough had been flattened or had burned in the spread of fires to give the outpost the appearance of a complete loss.

Appearances were deceiving though, and loss was something that no Ranger admitted readily or lightly. As the shock subsided Whilite was able to see more objectively. There was movement within the camp, and particularly around its perimeters- _a lot_ of movement. Land rovers and troops on foot moving to positions within the perimeter barrier of the microwave fence. In and around those positions Whilite could see the activities involved in improving and fortifying them to meet the possibility of another assault.

Camp Conrad's nose had been bloodied, but it was far from being down for the full count.

"With all the mortar fire", the slick's pilot warned Whilite, "We're gonna have to do a touch and go that's more _go_ than _touch_ \- so have you're people ready, okay? Damn if everyone doesn't love to shoot at a chopper!"

"Just get us close enough to the deck to jump!", Whilite yelled back, realizing that the prospect of being let off on a helipad that the enemy had been perfecting its aim on for hours was actually more daunting for him than being in the Lakota.

"Will do!", agreed the pilot as she banked into another orbit of the camp while the first Lakotas in the flight that had extracted Echo Company from the jungle began to dive on the helipads central to Conrad.

"Dive" was a strangely appropriate description of the approach that the helicopters made on the camp's modest airfield. From a distance as Whilite's Lakota orbited, the other ships in the flight looked like dragonflies swarming and then dipping in turn.

Each ship's charge at the deck seemed to promise it a fiery end, but the pilots' skill built on experience in theater allowed them to pull back at exactly the correct moment so that only their tires would slightly graze the concrete helipads and for only long enough for their passengers to spill out and scramble away before the Lakota vaulted skyward again.

Whilite was barely in his seat again and definitely not prepared as the Lakota pilot began her impression of a kamikaze attack on the helipad. Like the moment on a roller coaster ride when the first hill and gravity conspire to snatch the train into motion, Whilite felt the slick drop out beneath him. Unlike a roller coaster, Whilite did not have the frail consolation of reason that assured him he was safe. Quite the contrary, as he seemed to hover weightless over his seat, he couldn't help but remember the story the gunner on another Lakota had told him during his first flight into Conrad of a rocket passing through the cabin of that bird and carrying with it a trooper out the open door of the opposite side. In the split second before Sgt. Byerly hauled her second lieutenant back down into his seat, Whilite's racing mind pictured himself as forever being known in the local Lakota pilot's lore as "the guy who survived his first SOG/LRRP just to fall out of the bird ten seconds before landing".

The gratifying sensation of buns contacting nylon seat mesh eased the fear somewhat and allowed Whilite the peace of mind that he might only be one of the anonymous dozen who died with a Lakota pilot bent on taking her chopper on the direct route to China.

When Whilite's boots hit concrete under the full weight of himself and his gear, he'd forgotten the apprehension surrounding possible mortar fire. Solid ground was a sweet feeling as Whilite moved with the rest of 1st Squad across the helipad under the wash of the departing Lakota in the direction of Sergeant Major MacDonald who was motioning urgently for them

MacDonald met Whilite half way and joined him in jogging back in the direction from which he had just come.

"What's happening, Top?", Whilite shouted as the air around he and the senior NCO of Echo Company was churned by the departing birds that had ferried the rest of 3rd Platoon back to Conrad.

"The Cap'n's gone to check in at the CP.", MacDonald informed him, "But it sounds like orders are going to come down to sweep and clear the bush outside of the perimeter before nightfall. Cap'n wants everyone to draw body armor and get heavy with ammo before we take up position along the west fenceline. No time for chow and a shower, Lieutenant, sorry!"

Whilite almost laughed, "How about a change into clean underwear?"

MacDonald shook his head to discourage the thought, "Better not, Lieutenant-. Then what would you have to look forward to at the end of the day?"

 **Brasilia**

The micronians would never defeat the Zentraedi.

Action Commander Yeshta knew this in a way that the bizarre and undisciplined creatures who inhabited this wretched world could not as he reached the podium at the center of the speaking platform that had been erected for him. Through the thick plexiglass panes and beyond his line of guards standing behind the line of steel crowd barricades, he could still see the eyes of and feel the connection with the warriors who despite the hardships they faced in their exile had chosen to remain loyal to him, to The Warrior's Code, and to the essence of their own Zentraedi being.

They had all felt the shame that had followed the outcome of the battle that had brought them to this world and had marooned them on it. They had all been subjected to the indignity of micronization imposed upon them by the aliens who feared them in their true form. They had all been bombarded by the carefully crafted program of human propaganda that had said to them that their lives of observing The Warrior's Code had been wrong, and that it was at an end with the need to change their ways- which was to say change their very nature. They had endured micronian attempts to domesticate them, but in their cores they had remained strong and true to the principles and values that had allowed their kind to meet and defeat the Invid on countless worlds across the stars for generations.

The micronians had forced a change in them all- but they had not defeated the Zentraedi, or at least those who were still deserving of that name.

Yeshta knew this because in the thousands of eyes staring back at him he still saw the silent, reserved desire to be commanded toward achieving a single vision. There was also the clear stoicism that said that all were determined to do whatever was necessary and for however long required to take victory for their own.

These were the qualities- not the machines or the weapons provided by The Robotech Masters- that made the Zentraedi race undefeatable.

"Warrior comrades", Yeshta began, rewarded by the amplified sound of his own voice projected out across Plaza Internaَcional as a light breeze ruffled the edges of the handwritten pages he had laid down on the podium, "We stand together this morning as the targets of a successful treachery, but not as victims. Collectively we have expressed no interest but, and taken no action not in support of our singular goal to leave this world permanently for our rightful place in space. We have asked nothing of the micronians except for the return of what is ours to achieve our goal, and we have suppressed our true selves to do it in the peaceful manner that the micronians claim to hold so dear. Still, as you all know by now and at this very moment, the object of our efforts continues to smolder in the depths of the jungle as a result of an unprovoked attack by micronian military forces."

"We have tried to abide by the micronians' rules until we could make a parting of our ways- but that attempt has failed. We did not break these rules- _they_ did. We suppressed our warrior's nature to part company with this world on _their_ terms and have been punished as a result."

"I say to you all-. _Negotiation ends today!"_

A defiant roar rose from the crowd signifying a unity in shared frustration.

" _Capitulation ends today!"_

The plaza shook as the roar doubled with a ripple of sheer energy that washed through the crowd.

 _"Denial of The Warrior's Code ends today as we take what is ours! Peace ends today and the micronians shall not taste of it again until we free ourselves from their captivity!"_

Lilith sat behind a bundle of aluminum frames and on a duct joint that Corporal Gyle had moved into that position specifically for her and for that purpose. From there, and with the sub-machinegun she had balanced across her lap she was able to watch and guard the open stairwell that was the only discrete means of accessing the rising building's unfinished roof.

Her back was to the ASC sniper team, strangely ironic Lilith felt given that it had been she who had brought them to Brasilia and for the very moment that was almost at hand. She had seen them at work though, and the powerful report of the M-163R magnetic rail sniper's rifle would be all that she needed to tell her the deed was done. In the practical sense, her attention was best applied as it was being applied.

From a distance of over a mile, the energy of the Zentraedi in the Plaza Internaَcional could be felt as easily as it could be heard with the combined swell of thousands of shouting voices. The energy was building in pressure that Yeshta was directing to release in a manner he would control.

Lilith knew it was more likely destined for explosion.

"Eyes on target.", Sergeant Oakes said calmly as he peered through his tripod-mounted spotter's scope, making fine adjustments to the focus as he spoke. He and his shooter were at the beginning of a well-known, well-practiced process that was now to them as automatic and precise as clockwork. If there were irregularities to what was now happening, it was that they wore civilian clothing instead of the sniper's attire of face paint and ghile suit. The principle was the same and would be crucial to making an escape- blend into the environment.

"Eyes on target.", repeated Corporal Gyle, kneeling behind the dormant brutality embodied in the weapon at his shoulder. The M-163R's bipod rested upon the concrete rim of the casement that served as the shooting position and supported the heavy length of the magnetic rail accelerators within the barrel jacket.

Oakes took his time checking his instrument and the data it provided to him for his shooter. Deliberately pacing himself served another purpose besides accuracy though.

It conveyed calm.

If he were to display or project tension, Gyle would sense it and that added stress would transfer subconsciously. This was a moment when senses had to be clean and the mind clear for Gyle would be making the most difficult of shots- the "cold chamber" shot.

The "cold chamber" shot was the shot under whose shadow all sniper teams trained so diligently to perfect their skills. It was the decisive shot of legend that absolutely had to be made with the first round sent downrange- the chance of a second shot being highly unlikely if not impossible to expect. It was the shot that counted in determining the course of things to come, and that all sniper teams hoped to find themselves in a position to make.

"Range is one-eight-seven-nine meters.", Oakes relayed.

The target was reaching his speaking stride. Oakes could tell by the increasing animation of the Zentraedi on the speaking platform and by the waves of affirming applause and cheers that carried the distance between the plaza and the sniper team.

"One-eight-seven-nine.", Gyle repeated, making a fine adjustment to the rifle's powerful optical scope. The single dot at the center of the crosshairs remained stationary even as the target swayed with the passions of his own speaking. Carefully placed, Gyle was pleased to see that the target, despite his movements, never passed from under the mark of the dot.

Gyle concentrated on his breathing.

Slow in. Slow out. Deep and regular.

"Crosswind from the left at one point seven.", Oakes said.

"Left one point seven.", Gyle said making a final adjustment to his scope and resetting his aim so very slightly.

"Shooter ready."

"Shoot."

Gyle drew a deep breath as he leaned into his weapon and released it halfway. Yeshta rocked back and forth riding the waves of his supporters' excitement like a body surfer of the intangible. His swaying continued this way for a moment longer before he steadied to continue the presentation of his speech not feeling the feather weight of the dot on his chest.

Corporal Gyle released the rest of the air from his lungs in a smooth, controlled stream.

Warrior Clehkro, whose name had stuck with Action Commander Kevtok probably because he was leading the Serhot Ran to the micronian facility with the strange name of " _Copitas_ ", stood in diminished triumph over the body of Gnod's slain companion less then twenty paces from that establishment's door.

Perhaps it was the expression of disdain on Kevtok's face for the lesser organisms that had slain and then stripped a Zentraedi of all but his bloodied clothes that made the micronians on the street deviate from paths that would bring them too close to him. Perhaps it was the brazenly unconcerned fashion in which the party in its entirety brandished shotguns and AK-47 assault rifles.

In either case, Kevtok had little concern for the micronians he glared at one after the other except to check- to see if he could glimpse in the faces of the females a hint of knowledge about the circumstances that found a Zentraedi warrior dead and bloodied at his feet. So much was said in facial expression. This was true of Zentraedi, and Kevtok was finding quickly it was true of micronians as well. He was also discovering his aptitude for reading expressions transcended the species. He saw much fear, but no guilt.

Lieutenants Moyrt and Hyra had ventured into the alley beside the _Copitas_ searching for more substantial links to the incident that had occurred here. A scattering of debris and refuse along the alley that shifted slightly with the light breeze seemed to promise that all signs of passage had either already been concealed or would be unreadable to the Serhot Ran warriors whose familiarity with micronian urban centers was understandably limited.

Hyra was prepared to suggest a broader sweep when something caught her eye low on a building's alley wall. A dark red smudge of fluid, smeared as though applied and spread by glancing contact.

"Blood.", Hyra said, pointing the smear out to Moyrt as the single word grabbed his attention, "The micronian must have been wounded in the fight."

Moyrt kicked away the scattering of miscellaneous garbage at the base of the wall where Hyra had found the blood stain and was rewarded by additional drops the size of his thumbnail.

"We have a trail-.", Moyrt said to Hyra as she motioned for Kevtok's attention, "We have a _substantial_ trail-. The micronian could not have gotten far bleeding this way."

Kevtok arrived and in seeing Moyrt's activity and focus on the ground did not need to ask what his junior officers had come across.

"Which way?"

Moyrt pointed further down the alley, "She headed in that direction. If she hasn't bled out, we should find her quickly."

Kevtok easily lifted the weight of the assault rifle that Fral's warriors had provided for him. Unfamiliar with the AK-47 save the brief instruction given by a warrior to him, Kevtok had to look to find the firing safety which he released. A 100-round ammunition drum had replaced the standard box-clip magazine in the rifle's breech, and Kevtok found himself hoping to have occasion to make use of it.

"If the micronian is wounded, it could be more dangerous.", Kevtok warned his subordinates in the same way he might remind them of the dangers of a wounded or cornered Invid, "And we have no way of knowing if it's alone-."

A sound not unlike a thunderclap rumbled through the alley, seemingly centered in the street beyond on the far side. Pigeons that had been perched on rooftops took to flight in a commotion of fluttering wings and startled calls. Echoes of the single report rolled back at the Zentraedi in the alley, though this time they seemed to come from all around.

Kevtok languished in the torture of that eternal moment when the suspicion and evidence of a great failure awaited only its confirmation.

A silence, save the rustle of the light wind through the garbage in the alley, hung over the city as the last echoes of the single, powerful report rolled away. Then like the next wave coming to the seashore over its retreating predecessor, the sound that confirmed catastrophe reached Kevtok's ears.

A powerful wail of shock muted somewhat by distance but still clearly from the direction of the Plaza Internaََcional washed through the streets and in the process transformed into nothing less than the sound of pure rage

Sub-Commander Fral staggered unsteadily on legs that refused to support him. The exposed flesh on the right side of his face and the back of his right hand throbbed in waves of intense pain as he felt the blistering of skin that may or may not have also been the reason for Fral not being able to open his right eye.

He had escaped the trampling death suffered by many warriors beneath the fleeing feet of their comrades only by Fate's generosity. Fral had been roughly thirty meters from the speaking platform when it had happened, and only the fact that the warriors closer in to Yeshta were either as badly stunned and injured as Fral or worse had saved him when the panic sent the rest of the crowd in a rush in the other direction.

The "it"- what had happened- Fral was not sure of though he could remember the moment of and the moments leading up to "it" with great clarity. He had been on the plaza, pressing through the crowd with the intention of doing what he could to add to the effort to protect Yeshta who at the time had been engrossed in his own speaking. Between Fral and the plexiglass enclosed speaking platform at that moment had been as many warriors of Yeshta's guard as warriors who had come to hear him speak. For that reason, Fral had been focusing his attention outward, looking for any indication of danger- anything out of place that might signify a threat. In this search, something had caught Fral's attention- a "something" that he couldn't even recall now, but at that moment had caused him to half-turn away from Yeshta, the center of attention at his podium.

That was when "it" had happened.

Fral had not really seen "it", but could recall impressions of the moment clearly. Heat. Great heat hitting him as powerfully as a club wielded by the mightiest warrior, only striking with a searing edge instead of blunt force. Fral had caught a glimpse of a sheet of the most brilliant white rising into a column of orange out of the corner of his right eye before reflex had slammed the lid shut. There had been a sound as well- a great crackling of air super-heating and the pop and groan of metal warping in the blaze

The smell was only coming to Fral now as he stood in the trailing edge of the crowd's flight from the plaza. It was a thick, fatty, charred odor that swirled about and intensified as warriors who had been closer to the speaking platform than Fral stumbled and crawled to make their escapes from "it". Some were hairless and blackened, their exposed skin cooked dry and cracked, others whirled and stumbled in blind attempts to escape flames that leapt from their burning clothes and were fed by their movements. Others just stumbled in the direction of the retreat with melted gobs of flesh dripping from their bodies leaving a gruesome trail behind.

The slain warriors, those cut down instantly- mercifully- by "it" remained more or less where they had stood as unrecognizable, burning heaps of butchery. Others had simply vanished into vapor leaving no trace of themselves on the concrete that continued to buckle and snap with the diminishing heat.

Fral was aware of all of this, knew all of these things were happening around him, but it was not registering in the face of what "it" had been at its core.

Yeshta's speaking platform was ablaze and quickly losing any visible similarities to its self of only moments before. The platform segments, elevated and supported on steel legs were settling as the supports softened and crumpled under their own weight. Similarly, the steel frames that had once held panes of plexiglass weighing several hundred kilograms each had lost their shape so significantly as to give no indication of what they had been. Remarkably the plexiglass panes had not yet fully melted out of their frames, but were doing so rapidly and running in thick, viscous streams to feed the inferno that had melted them.

As the center pane was losing the last of its recognizable form, Fral saw the last disappearing evidence of where something powerful had penetrated the softened acrylic. The point of penetration, with the puckered appearance of a droplet breaking the surface tension of water and caught in freeze-frame, dissolved into the flame before Fral's eyes and was lost.

Lost also as the heat ignited the last of the combustibles on and around the wrecked speaking platform were the remains of Yeshta. The two portions of his body,-upper and lower, and not quite _halves_ because as best as Fral could tell a major section of his center body had simply vanished- were rapidly consumed in flame.

The intense heat began to melt the audio equipment that had been set up for Yeshta to amplify his voice for the crowd during his speech. As the blaze took the electronics, the speakers gave a nerve-grating shriek that could have been easily misconstrued as their death wail- or perhaps provided Yeshta their last service by acting as his.

"Target is down.", Oakes said, understanding as he peered through his spotter's scope the magnitude of the understatement.  
"Yeah-.", Gyle said, distantly and equally transfixed on the dissipating ball of flame that had risen over the plaza, "I guess you could call that a kill."

Lilith, able to see only the most dramatic results of a plan successfully executed felt still the weight she had carried for many months lift away. The relief was not nearly as gratifying as she had hoped and considerably more short lived. Yeshta was dead, but he had not died in a way that fostered great ambiguity in culprits. The Zentraedi did not have a specific face they were looking for, but they would know quickly what kind of assassin they were searching for. Lilith knew well that it was best to not be around to even come under suspicion. Many were surely to die today for no offense other than _possibly_ being the shooter who had killed Yeshta. Zentraedi justice was an imprecise thing, and Lilith had no intention of being on the receiving end of it.

"Let's get the hell out of here before the whole damn city comes apart.", Lilith advised gravely as she got to her feet. The twinges of pain from her wounds told her that her left leg would not be good for a lot of use, but would serve her long enough. She would need only to make it as far as the nearest car that could be stolen to make the drive to a building in the far east of the city with a helipad. An extraction, courtesy of the local ASC air wing had been arranged, and sufficient time had been provided to not make it a critical issue.

Oakes and Gyle, ever-aware of the fate of snipers caught in or after the act of their profession were not in need of Lilith's observation about the necessity to leave the scene of the crime. Rifle, power-pack, and spotter's scope had all gone quickly into a steel chest that had belonged to the construction company on site but had been commandeered by the sniper team for the purpose for which it was about to be used.

Oakes dropped three thermite grenades into the chest, spoons and pins in place, and pulled the pin on a fourth as Gyle held the heavy lid of the large storage chest open for him.

"Sorry, baby.", Gyle apologized to the M-163R that had served him so well, "You just have too much baggage for anything long-term."

Oakes laughed at the strangely appropriate remark as he let the spoon of the grenade he held fly, and then tossed the bomb into the chest.

"Fire in the hole!"

Gyle dropped the lid of the trunk shut and both men scrambled to cover with Lilith behind the stack of piping she had been sitting near during the crucial moments of the operation. A muffled explosion, more of a loud "pop" marked the detonation of the first thermite grenade which sprung the chest lid open again. The three grenades Oakes had thrown in previously cooked off quickly , each with a blue-white flash of burning phosphorous and aluminum. The snipers' tools in the chest were already ruined by this point and burned clean of any physical evidence that could link them to the team, but the heat from the four grenades would further reduce the evidence to a virtually unrecognizable state before their thermite charges were done burning. The albatross had been cut from Oakes' and Gyle's necks, and they had no intention of being around to witness its final disposal.

"We're good.", Oakes said, picking up a sub-machinegun identical to the one Lilith carried and releasing the safety, added, "Let's go."

 **Northwestern Brazil**

It lay somewhere out in the distant carpet of green that continued to rush at and below _Marilyn_ as Winters kept the fighter in station following the course set by Mumuni that was more or less north now with the exception of turns that had to be made to go around the topography of the land. What Winters knew was ahead and what he could not see with the naked eye as he could see represented on the map layer of his cockpit's central MFD was the artificially imposed border between Brazil and Venezuela.

Crossing that invisible line in the jungle did very little in a real way to reduce the immediate threat to the two Valkyrie squadrons and VC-33 charging for the Caribbean- but it was a waypoint that marked progress in their escape. For himself, Winters knew he would breathe a little easier once he could look down and know it was Venezuelan and not Brazilian soil beneath him. The departure from inner sanctum of The Control Zone and from Brazil as a whole had already been too lengthy reminding Winters of lingering too long at the bottom of the deep end of a swimming pool and then not being able to reach the surface quite fast enough to escape the sensation of smothering. The sensation was always worst just before you were about to break the surface, as it was now. It was the torment of knowing your proximity to relief and salvation.

It was a strange breed of fortune that Winters and the other pilots of the composite flight had been blessed with that they had other material concerns to pre-occupy themselves with. Among the most significant besides hugging the irregular terrain of the hills and valleys without plowing into it was the concern of the line of ASC posts along the border that was not as comfortingly intangible as the border itself. Like all military posts, these Southern Cross bases served legitimate military necessities in supporting activities and containing Zentraedi malcontents within The Control Zone. As the ASC had risen in stature and power within Brazil and its relationship with the RDF had proportionately deteriorated, the posts that appeared along the border with Venezuela had taken on the secondary purpose of being the sign that said without words, "keep out".

A door closed and locked worked both ways though, and the pilots under Mumuni and Winters' command were aware that these same bases could be used to keep them in. Winters could tell that this was foremost on Mumuni's mind. His tactical database, though days out of having been refreshed with current theater-level updates, and even more days from a refresh via InfoLink that he trusted was still reliable enough to show the accurate location of two such ASC posts. Air capabilities summary reports of both bases (a standard information set available on all "friendly" bases through InfoLink) showed Winters that both bases had fighter contingents of no less than five squadrons. Given that the retreating Valkyries had monitored a call to alarm from Salvador early on the run, Winters was now surprised to see that there was no sign of any of those fighters being aloft.

As well as this served Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadrons, being that Lyle had loaded a weapons package for his planes including only two medium-range "Basilisk" and two short-range, dogfighting "Asp" missiles with the plane captain to the Vigilantes having armed his birds similarly, it was odd to the point of being ominous. The door was hardly being left open for the RDF to escape, but it was hardly being guarded either.

The two posts , placed just over eighty kilometers apart on an imaginary line were only thirty-seven kilometers ahead if one was judging passage of the line between them. If the Southern Cross tactic was going to be to spring on the Valkyries from two sides, the time was rapidly passing for them to launch their fighters if they were to have any hope of a tactically advantageous intercept.

It was possible also that with all that had happened that day that these posts simply had not gotten the word to be on the alert for the rogue Valkyries, or that they had determined their efforts were better applied elsewhere. Either of these scenarios would have been as agreeable to Winters as just slipping by through the gap in their ground-based radars- but he doubted this was the case. Strange as it was, Winters couldn't help but think that he would have felt better had there been a more concerted ASC effort to hunt them down.

The lead section of Vigilante Valkyries banked right, following the bend of a high hill that was providing excellent cover and as Winters led his section into the same turn heard Mumuni break radio silence with a call that made him regret his thoughts of a moment earlier.

"Tally! Boogey two o'clock level!"

As the hill fell behind Winters, he scanned the horizon expecting to see the point fighter of five squadrons headed right at him. Fortunately the boogey was less immediately threatening as he soon saw with the aide of Mumuni's visual direction.

"Moving back and right.", Mumuni said for all to hear, "Helo squawking ASC IFF."

Winters found the chopper, a Lakota painted the same green as the jungle allowing it to blend into the background impressively. The helicopter had already dropped below the horizon when Winters laid eyes on it and was only visible to him for a moment before it passed behind one hill of many that stood between them. Apparently the Lakota pilot was well-familiar with the tactic of terrain masking as well- which in truth was the only real defense it had against two squadrons of fighters.

"Request permission to break and engage!"

Winters did not recognize the requester. Definitely not one of the Knight Hawks. One of Mumuni's Vigilantes- young and quick to the trigger by the sounds of him.

"Negative.", Mumuni responded as Winters had expected her to, "Let him go. The word's already out, and he's already reporting us to his command. Nothing worth killing five people over."

Winters gritted his teeth. Mumuni would have to bring that up. There was still the very real possibility of the Vigilantes and Knight Hawks having to shoot their way out to safety, and though Winters knew that it would make neither he nor his pilots hesitate, the fact that Mumuni had pointed out that there were people in any target they would have to fire on would not make it any easier.

Winters, feeling the familiar knot in his gut beginning to form, put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on the next sight he knew would bring him comfort- the blue of the Caribbean Sea.

 **Camp Conrad**

How body armor had changed since the Americas had first seen steel-plate clad Conquistadors centuries earlier, Lt. Whilite mused briefly as he advanced through the dense jungle undergrowth that had swallowed he and his Rangers only 200 meters outside of the outer perimeter microwave fence of Camp Conrad. What had prompted the thought, Whilite was unsure of, but as he and 3rd Platoon advanced in sweeping formation as part of the greater effort of Echo Company, he could imagine a gold-seeking Spaniard (though hadn't Brazil gone to the Portuguese by some order of the Pope or something?) slashing through this exact same bush with drawn sword and clanking along under thirty kilograms of steel helmet and armor.

Armor these days, particularly that now standard issue to all RDF Army and REF Marine Corps combat troops, was as far advanced of the classic Conquistador's battle attire as a Veritech fighter was from the rapier and matchlock weapons of that historical era. The movement-impeding weight and relatively low protective qualities (in the face of modern and alien weapons) of steel had been superseded by carbon fiber, chemically engineered super-plastics, and ceramics that were at best distant relatives of the materials that found their way into tea sets. The latest incarnation of attire designed to protect a soldier's flesh from all that was intended to do it harm in battle was the Mission-Oriented Protective Component Armor System – "MOPCAS II", graced with the affectionate name of "Stalker" by the personnel to whom it was issued.

As implied by the "component" part of the Stalker's official designation, the armor system was far more sophisticated than its medieval ancestors that were worn either full "on" or were "off". The Stalker at the minimal level of protection it was designed to provide a soldier (known officially as "MOPCAS Level 1") looked not completely dissimilar from the last generation of Kevlar and ceramic insert body armor its core concept was based on. Essentially a conformal "vest" with multiple flex-points between the segmented "hard plates", the MOPCAS Level 1 provided, with the standard issue helmet, protection of all a soldier's "vital" areas. Ascending through the subsequent MOPCAS "levels" saw the addition of arm ("sleeve" by popular terminology) and leg ("chaps" similarly arrived at) suit components until a soldier had at MOPCAS Level 5 a full environmental suit of body armor that in addition to protecting him or her from projectile and laser also protected from NBC (Nuclear, Biological & Chemical) weapons and the vacuum of space.

At "Level 5" additional gear such as filtered respirators or independent air supply was required, but minus the weight of combat load and field supply the Stalker's weight never exceeded 31 kilograms. As an armor "system" the weight of the Stalker at any of its MOPCAS levels came with features that had been the stuff of science fiction during the operational life of the Stalker's immediate predecessors and that had only been explored though not fully realized with the U.S. Army's "Land Warrior" program. Powered by the same "Type C" protoculture battery cell that powered any of a soldier's InfoLink-enabled electronics and communications systems, the Stalker armor system boasted the first temperature control capability designed into human body armor. Established as a requirement to contend with extreme heat and cold while operating in both atmosphere-environment and airless space conditions, heating and cooling was done through one of the armor's inner layers and accomplished through stimulation of electro-chemical fiber webbing. The same layer also dealt with the control of moisture levels from the soldier's perspiration, and if the situation arose- urination- though no soldier had ever admitted to having tested the feature for the latter purpose. The net effect of the temperature control feature was a suit of armor that troops in extreme environments often found themselves wearing for the comfort of heating or cooling without having to contend with the imprecise art of adding or subtracting traditional clothing layers.

The MOPCAS II "Stalker" in all its forms provided operationally applicable benefits to the wearing of it outside of armor protection and comfort of the soldier. Similar to standard issue RDF BDUs, the Stalker's outer layer employed Chameleon camouflage technology, and the armor housed bio-monitor pads that allowed medical personnel to assess a soldier's basic life functions from any site that InfoLink would reach.

Future versions of the MOPCAS were rumored to promise features as varied as blood-flow staunching lining designed to constrict immediately around and apply pressure to a wound upon the suit sensing a penetration of itself, to a chemical component based "self-sealing" feature that would close off breeches of the suit's pressure layer at Level 5 and potentially protect soldiers from decompression casualties in low-pressure atmospheres or space. Some troops had predicted that future versions of the armor system would even protect a soldier from malicious thought, but for now the designers were most concerned about offering protection from what could actually harm or kill.

What the MOPCAS II "Stalker" provided now suited Lt. Whilite just fine at the "Level 4" posture in which he and the rest of Echo Company were wearing it. Advanced Infantry school had included extensive training on the capabilities, use, and maintenance of the Stalker armor system- so like any infantryman or Marine in United Earth service, Whilite could have recited the protective elements he now enjoyed and the few vulnerabilities he still had to be wary of. It wasn't the factual based, textbook litany of benefits he was privileged to by wearing the armor that made him feel like a technological Achilles, but rather just the fit of the armor that was snug without being constricting. It was like many a nights he had spent as a small boy, lying awake in fear of the boogeyman, but calm in the certainty that a tight wrapping of blankets would protect him. It was the psychological element.

There was the psychological element of security provided by the body armor to Whilite that should an enemy bullet or fragment of shrapnel find its way to him that it would be stopped- most likely.

There was also the prophetic quality of knowing what was over each hill or in patches of dense foliage before he reached it that came with having Tinkerbelle on point.

"Tinkerbelle", or "Tink" as most soldiers who had never even read or seen _Peter Pan_ as a child (Whilite had done both) called it was only the popular nickname for the RAV-6 "Gadfly"- the smallest, and arguably best loved by the infantry forces, UAV in the Defense Forces inventory. The size of an "anorexic's dinner plate" (the burley staff sergeant whom Whilite had first heard lovingly refer to the RAV-6 as "Tink") the RAV-6 Gadfly was truly a "flying saucer" in that its hovering and directional fans, power pack, and ultra-compact sensor package were all housed in a Frisbee-like body of the lightest carbon composites. At a hover or in motion, Tinkerbelle was nearly silent at distances as close as three meters, though generally it never flew so low as to test that assertion. Operating in the field, Tinkerbelle flew at around ten meters, acting as an unseen, unheard, and unsuspected probe drone amongst the lower canopy for patrolling units where its video, infra-red, and night vision optics provided its masters with a "first sight in contact" capability. In urban warfare, the perilous task of probing and clearing occupied structures was made safe by the intrepid and often self-sacrificing little drones that could provide a unit commander with insight into a room's contents before he or she committed troops to its taking.

Limited to little more than providing a "peek" into areas of interest to anyone with InfoLink access, Tinkerbelle nonetheless required a team of two to put it to its optimal use. A pilot with stereoscopic video goggles and a remote control amazingly similar to a child's radio-controlled airplane and with only a few more buttons and switches flew this tiniest of drones while a specialist independently controlled the mode and direction of the RAV-6's micro-camera package.

The only drawback that any trooper who had benefited from Tinkerbelle gracing the air above would admit about "her" was that as simple as the control of the probe drone was, it was still too cumbersome to be used by a combat unit on the move or on patrol. When there was a base of operations available where a team could work unhindered by having to worry about their own movements however-. A trained team with even modest experience in this case could be an invaluable asset to a unit on patrol who could see every image "Tink" captured via their own InfoLink communications systems.

"Echo One Actual, Conrad One-.", came the clean and clear voice of the camp's action director over the Echo Company command frequency, "Probe contact two hundred meters west of your position. Halt your advance and stand by for instructions. Over."

Captain Nguyen's voice replied calmly from fifty meters north of where Whilite was motioning for his platoon to halt and cover, "Conrad One, Echo One Actual- copy that. Over."

Whilite took a knee in a patch of high ferns and a moment later found Sgt. Byerly with him as he flipped open the panel screen of his PICS interface mounted on the left forearm of his armor. The platoon sergeant had proven herself repeatedly over the brief course of their professional relationship to be as indispensable as Whilite's own right arm- so he had no qualms whatsoever in having her as close.

The images from the RAV-6 Gadfly far ahead on point came through as a crisp image on the small, high resolution screen that the platoon commander and top NCO stared down upon. Both could have as easily flipped down their helmet visors and seen the image that way- but for Whilite's part, viewing the same image this way facilitated better communication.

There was a slight quiver to the image that came with the inherent instabilities of a camera mounted on so light an airframe as the Gadfly. The motion was not so distracting as to prevent the capture of a rogue Zentraedi mortar position from above. A dozen or more of the aliens were busily erecting their weapons, while a pan of the camera showed twice as many others working at trees with axes in order to open the canopy and allow unhindered firing from the mortar teams.

"They're reconstituting-.", Byerly observed quietly, "Yeah- _one, two, three-_ four tubes-. Look like 60 or 80 millimeter mortars. These same bastards were probably dropping rounds into Conrad this morning, and'll be set to do it again before too long."

"Gotta love technology.", Whilite said as Tinkerbelle continued to sweep the area with its camera and showed the mortar position to be on top of a hill by virtue of the machinegun position being set up at its foot. Whilite ran a thumb thoughtfully along his jaw-line and couldn't help but marvel at the growth of stubble he found there. Passing an inspection that was not likely to happen was not a key concern at the moment though- the mortar position with the forty-plus Zentraedi and the nest with the Soviet-era medium machinegun defending it was.

"They'll do their own version of the shoot and scoot.", Byerly told her platoon commander, "I've seen it before. They slug you with a good, solid sucker punch like they got the camp with this morning, and then collapse back and just jab until they can get some cohesion again and come in for another gut punch. Not sophisticated, but for the C2 infrastructure they have to work with- you have to give it to `em, it ain't bad."

Whilite nodded his agreement and grudging respect. Roughly half of Camp Conrad's Ranger and combat infantry contingent were probing the jungle in all directions- a lot of resources being dedicated to locating and eliminating scattered rogue units that probably totaled a force a tenth that size. Meanwhile, Whilite suspected, the bulk of the rogue Zentraedi were licking their wounds just beyond the range that Conrad's forces could be expected to clear during daylight hours in preparation to strike again after dark.

Or so they would if _countermeasures_ were not taken.

"Echo One Actual, Conrad One. Hold your present position and cover for steel rain. Let Arty do the heavy lifting, you'll clean up once the all-clear is signaled. Give the word when your unit is covered. Over."

"Conrad One, Echo One Actual. Copy that.", Nguyen replied, "Echo Company, cover and report."

"Echo Two, covered."

Whilite glanced about to see that his platoon who had been hearing every word of the exchange were already pressed flat into the jungle floor. The target that would be receiving hell from above shortly was two hundred meters away- a wide margin for fire control error as it applied to modern, highly accurate artillery. The Rangers of Echo Company, 3rd Platoon were not foolish though and knew that the moniker "steel rain" was not as sinister as the selection of munitions for use that it implied. In all likelihood and at this very moment, batteries of 105mm howitzers were having fragmentation-case shells fed into their breeches. These shells would never reach the ground when fired, but would rather be set for air-burst over their target. Flechette and jagged shards of steel would unrepentantly grind anything softer than itself to bits, killing without question anything living in a hundred meter radius. The density of the jungle meant that the danger beyond the kill radius could be counted on to be reduced- but no one who had ever seen a severe shrapnel wound wanted to be caught out without cover with the coming of the "steel rain".

"Echo Three, covered.", Whilite said before kissing jungle floor.

"Echo Four, covered."

"Conrad One, Echo One Actual-. Bring the rain."

Whilite clung to his rifle and to the ground as though he expected a great hand to reach down through the canopy to pluck him up. The sensation of the shells passing overhead- which they did a moment later with a hollow, warbling shriek- was similar. The quick rise and fall of air pressure that came with the passing salvo left a hollow feeling in the chest that preceded the ungloved body blows from an invisible boxer as rounds began to detonate. The heavy boom that shook the earth beneath the Rangers carried with it a distinct thrashing sound, like a great rake drawn quickly through a pile of leaves and with undertones of splitting wood. Jungle birds screamed in alarm and took to the air all around, showing themselves to have been at roost in places unseen by the patrolling Rangers

The earth continued to shake as with the fury of a vengeful god's anger for several more seconds before the jungle went back beyond its normal level of sounds to a deathly silence.

Whilite, the morbid curiosity gripping him before any other thought, flipped open his PICS interface to see what had been done to the reconstituting mortar position that had been the target of the brief artillery strike. To his initial disappointment, and then with a second thought his relief there was no video image from the RAV-6- only a black screen. Appetite for the grotesque would have to be satiated in person.

"Conrad One, Echo One Actual-.", Captain Nguyen's voice said calmly over the radio. He had a hesitation in his tone that told Whilite he too was looking at a darkened screen where he expected an image. "We have no feed from Tinkerbelle."

"Echo One Actual, Conrad One- roger that-. Looks like Tink didn't get back far enough and bought the farm. Ballistic tracks show Arty was right on the money. Resume your advance with caution and assess the target while we get a new Gadfly on station. Over."

"Copy that.", Nguyen replied, "Echo Company, on your feet. Assume incursion positions and hold for my order."

Whilite closed the video feed from the fearless little RAV that had lingered too near to the indifferent force of artillery and had gone out (in Whilite's mind) in a spray of sparks and a shower of spilled pixie dust. The lieutenant enlarged the map of the patrol area to fill the whole interface screen and waited. A moment later in support of Nguyen's orders, a mark and shorthand notation appeared showing the four platoon commanders of Echo Company where their captain wanted them positioned relative to the mortar position for the final push. Whilite found his platoon on the far end of the southern line of a classic pincer set-up. Not every maneuver in combat had to be a sophisticated one- and often the best ones were simple. Besides, Whilite reminded himself, they were not likely to find anyone at the mortar position in any condition to offer resistance.

He hoped.

 **Brasilia**

There was a delicate balance between exercising an appropriate defensive posture and toting a firearm in a way that made one stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Lilith knew this, and as Corporal Gyle stepped out from the construction site and crossed the upturned earth and trench spanned by a sturdy but makeshift bridge of plywood and planks she was glad to see that he demonstrated knowledge of this as well. Certainly there were more than a few civilians in Brasilia armed with automatic weapons. Without a doubt, many had learned to use those weapons from military or law enforcement training, or from persons who had received that training. But a civilian wielding a sub-machinegun like a trained expert in the proximity of the origin of a professional sniper shot- that would surely scream "suspicious" to anyone who had the slightest idea of the events that had just transpired and were continuing to unfold in Brasilia.

Gyle was conscientious of this though and after a quick sweep of the street over the short length of the sub-machinegun, lowered it and waved Oakes and Lilith on.

"How well can you put weight on that leg?", Oakes asked and for obvious reasons. Helping to support her weight as he was, his dominant right arm was under Lilith's left and behind her- bumping her on the rump with the side of the sub-machinegun he gripped with each step. If he were called upon to use the weapon, he would not be able to quickly, nor would Lilith be able to use hers accurately supported as she was by the sergeant and off of her own sure footing.

Oakes was thinking as she was. They were not in the clear just yet.

"I can manage on my own if we aren't taking up long-distance running.", Lilith said taking her left arm from around Oakes' neck. The next step as they neared the narrow bridge over the trench dug for utility lines and piping nearly proved her wrong as her left leg failed to accept her weight.

Oakes caught her and he shrugged her left arm back into position over his shoulders, "Yeah, okay-. Let's just do it this way and agree not to pick any more fights today."

"Sure-.", agreed Lilith, edging sideways across the bridge in an odd single-file as the structure was not wide enough to accommodate them both side-by-side, "I think you just like swatting my ass with that thing though."

"That too.", Oakes said with a hint of a laugh.

Lilith glanced beyond the construction site's fence to the sidewalk and street where Gyle was making an effort to look inconspicuous while holding a weapon at the half-ready at waist level and continuously surveying the street.

Surveying the _empty_ street.

A chill jolted up Lilith's spine and branched out through her nerves to every point of her body as her instincts told her that something was wrong. This area of the city was mostly office and commercial structures which had promised fewer witnesses during the sniper team's selection of a "nest". With the unanticipated exodus from Brasilia that had commenced with the rise of unrest this had also translated into fewer refugees.

Now there were none.

Not a trickle.

Lilith could feel eyes on her though and with eyes trained to see ideal points of concealment and threats that were not obvious to those uninitiated in her trade she quickly found the owners of those eyes she felt. Quick and nervous peeks were being taken from inside alleys and behind buildings by civilians who were also keenly studying the street. These were not predatory stares, but more like the expectant watch of scavengers eager for scraps- but not willing to risk getting in the way of the kill.

" _Down!"_

The uneasiness had been building in Gyle. It had been a familiar sensation- the same tension that came right before he pulled the trigger on his weapon. Only the feeling had been more acute, and he had been coming quickly to suspect that someone else's finger was poised on a trigger.

The corporal had been looking left, up the street and away from plaza that still could be heard to be in an uproar when Lilith's order tripped the "obey" conditioned response in him. He was at one knee with his sub-machinegun to his shoulder in a split second and was searching for what had raised the alarm from Lilith.

He found the answer across the street and to his right at the opening of an alley that had been clear a moment before. The Zentraedi was staring back at him over the sights of a Kalashnikov rifle, the dark circle of its barrel being oddly clear and visible to Gyle whose mind likened it to the "death dot" of his riflescope.

The sharp and rapid report of automatic weapons fire reverberated from the glass and concrete building fronts. Lilith did not have her sub-machinegun up when she saw Gyle out of the corner of her eye thrown to the ground in the jerky motion of a living thing being tattered with bullets, and hitting it with the collapse of a thing that bullets could no longer harm.

Lilith had seen the Zentraedi, a mountain of a male warrior, retreat back into the alley though the clatter of automatic rifle fire and the mingled blasts of shotguns had not subsided. The hiss and pop of bullets passing by and striking objects around her was a whirlwind that Lilith had suddenly found herself at the center of. A motion to her right- just beyond the site fence drew her attention and the pointing of her gun arm when she felt a sensation like taking two major league fast balls in the small of her back.

Lilith's body failed her below the waist and she let go of Oakes' neck and shoulders with her left arm lest she drag him down with her. She was expecting but not wanting him to catch her in some soldier's pointless attempt at gallantry- but instead felt his weight fall on top of her heavily as she went down on the dusty, uneven ground.

Lilith's legs were numb now and would not answer her commands as she tried to drag herself out from under Oakes' weight and their mixing, warm pool of blood. Her sub-machinegun that had come free of her grip at some point was just beyond her fingertips, the handle turned toward her. As she pulled for it, Lilith appeared to be in a macabre contest with Oakes whose arm, still draped over her body, was extended toward the weapon as well with an occasional twitch from the fingers.

There were voices now- distinctly Zentraedi, and they were rising with the sound of approaching movement.

Action Commander Kevtok followed the trail of blood marked in relatively even spaced dots on the pavement that led from the alley where he'd concealed for the ambush across the street at a diagonal toward the construction site where Moyrt and Hyra were closing from the positions they had assumed to form a three-way crossfire. The norghil warriors borrowed from Fral accompanied the two junior Serhot Ran and were showing diligence in ensuring that they would not fall victim to a similar attack to the one that had just been sprung on the micronians by intense watchfulness on the skeletal building and the area around.

Kevtok reached the sidewalk where the spreading blood from the male micronian he had cut down with rifle fire was forming a thin stream into the gutter when the crack of two additional rifle shots echoed from the building fronts. He found Hyra easing from a shooting stance amongst the stacks of building materials and piles of displaced earth with the others joining her.

"We're clear!", Moyrt announced, seeing the approach of his superior over the body of the third slain micronian, "We'll sweep the structure to see if any are remaining inside-."

"Delay that.", Kevtok countered, arriving at the scene with his subordinates. Two micronians were twisted into a single heap and both appeared to be reaching for the same blunt, ugly weapon that Kevtok kicked into the trench they had crossed with the toe of his boot. The male, on top, having sustained multiple wounds to his torso had received a final shot to the head from Hyra though it was likely not necessary by his appearance. The other, underneath, had been clawing for the weapon Kevtok had kicked into the trench (evident by the scratch marks in the dirt) when Hyra's shot had crudely split her skull.

"These are the ones we came for.", Kevtok concluded seeing the evidence of an earlier wound to the micronian female's leg, "And if they're not- just as well. They'll do for the purpose of an example."

"Example, Lord?", Moyrt asked, balancing the Kalashnikov he'd been given by Fral's security team easily on his shoulder.

Kevtok was already looking back toward to plaza where even at a distance the aftermath of a dire event was evident, "We should return now. Bring the micronian bodies."

 **Northern Venezuela**

"Okay, we're through hugging the deck.", Colonel-select "Switchblade" Mumuni announced as the horizon surrendered its irregular green fringe of coastal terrain for an even border of blue. The Caribbean would be below them in less than a minute, terrain masking had ceased to be a viable tactic some kilometers back, and Mumuni was certain that the high-speed, low-altitude flying had to have been making an impact on the VC-33 cargo plane's fuel supply as it was still situated at the center of the combined Valkyrie squadrons.

"Climb to angels thirty and initiate InfoLink connection-. There's got to be an AWACS on station- let's have a look around."

Winters could not imagine angelic choirs producing a more dulcet sound than the words from the flight leader. Venezuela and all of South America for that matter fell behind and away as Winters eased _Marilyn_ into a climb dictated by Mumuni by example and one that the cargo plane with the core of his ground crew could match. The pilot tapped through the options of one of the MFDs before him until he reached the InfoLink functions that showed the network disabled. Winters called the system on-line with a single tap of his finger and the screen blinked at him- "INITIALIZING".

A moment later Winters' cockpit displays refreshed with the flood of information available through the RDF data-link. The local AWACS, "Sea Breeze" (the callsign assigned to the aircraft flying the patrol circuit and not the aircraft itself), was on station west of Cuba and provided a view well into Central America and far out into the Atlantic of air traffic military and commercial-.

This included the cluster of ASC Phantoms in squadron strength almost due north, positioned and loitering to be on the logical approach path to Galveston- the "gateway" into the North American Sector- from multiple points of origin along the northern Venezuelan coast. Their range was just beyond that at which the Valkyries would have been able to detect them independent of the AWACS, "Sea Breeze", but they would acquire them in seconds. This also meant that the Phantoms would be able to see the Valkyries as well.

" _Oh shit-._ "

The two word utterance from Buster two sections back from Winters spoke volumes and for all of the pilots in the mixed flight. The Phantoms were not disclosing their full identity beyond the required, ASC-authenticating IFF squawk, but Winters had no doubts.

As the bogeys crossed the mutual line of detection they shared with the Valkyries, their course changed to a southward one that could be mistaken for nothing but vectoring to intercept.

Winters scrolled through the logged frequencies on his communications system and found the one he knew would have listening ears on the other end.

"Hello, Mojo-. A ways from home, aren't we?"

There was a long silence that Winters refused to misconstrue for a reason for optimism before Mathias's voice replied.

"Hello, Jack. Out looking for some very naughty Valkyrie pilots. Seen anyone that fits the bill?"

Winters shook his head grimly as he expanded the tactical display on his cockpit's central display to include the areas well back into South America. At a glance, Winters could see six ASC fighter squadrons aloft to his rear- four Phantom, and two of the heavier, Corsair III squadrons. Their positioning and course tracks indicated that they could have easily been on patrol to those who had no reason to suspect otherwise. As Mathias and his Cavaliers were closing from the north though, the six squadrons on various points off of Winters' tail began to turn north and put on altitude and speed. A broadly laid snare was beginning to close and in minutes would be very snug.

"Can't say I know what qualifies as _naughty_ anymore.", Winters admitted, hoping that while bantering a clean way out of the trap could be found, "The bar's been raised pretty high lately."

"No matter.", Mathias said flatly, "I've got clear instructions to escort you all back to an ASC post, or to take you down. I'm indifferent to which."

Mathias's blunt discourse told Winters both that he had been working himself up to this moment for some time, and that he definitely _did_ have a preference as to which option played out. If Mathias's voice had not communicated this clearly to Winters, the warning tone from the pilot's Valkyrie that it was being illuminated with attack radar did. Winters glanced at his own aircraft's munitions stores and found that the inventory of air-to-air weapons had not miraculously increased since the last time he had checked.

In total, Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadrons could throw four Basilisk missiles downrange for every one of Mathias's Cavaliers in the air. The Cavaliers in turn, no doubt armed exclusively for an air-to-air duel could fill the skies and then still hand the battle off to the six squadrons of their brother pilots if necessary.

Mumuni inserted herself, sounding noticeably indignant for having been excluded from the exchange thus far, unorthodox as the Cavalier challenge was.

"This is Colonel Mumuni, Vigilante Squadron commander and _senior_ RDF officer-. Your authority does not extend into this airspace. You will exit this airspace immediately or-."

Mathias countered, "My instructions cover you as well, Colonel, and as you participated in an attack on an ASC base- my _authority_ extends to the range of my weapons. You will direct your flight to obey- _now._ "

"I don't suppose pistols at dawn on the green, just the two of us, is an option?", Winters asked as he selected the remaining air-to-ground weapons carried by his Valkyrie for jettisoning. If missiles started to fly, he was going to have to be light that extra weight.

"No, I'm afraid not.", Mathias said flatly as missile seeker-heads locked onto Winters' Valkyrie, "And you're coming up on that _die_ or _swim_ alternative quickly. Come to course one-seven-two and reduce your speed to four hundred knots immediately or fight."

"Vigilantes, Knight Hawks- go weapons hot.", Mumuni ordered, "Permission to fire granted when fired upon."

Winters' stomach knotted suddenly, contracting into a steel ball that he thought he could feel banging at the insides of his belly. If Mathias had been counting on Mumuni to act as some stabilizing force in his favor, he had just been proven wrong. If he had expected anything but a fight from her after marginalizing her authority in the situation and provocatively illuminating her command with radar, he had just proven himself stupid.

Winters suspected neither and rather was of the opinion that Mumuni was making the move Mathias most wanted her to make.

"See you in the furball, Winters.", Mathias said.

Winters could not be sure that the radar beam saturating his aircraft with reflecting energy was Mathias's, but at the moment it felt that way and the pilot regretted not having pulled the trigger of his revolver earlier that morning when its muzzle had been level with the space between Mathias's eyes.

"You and me and the Devil makes three."

"ASC squadron commander, on guard!"

The hail, another challenge to battle, but in a voice and from whom Winters did not know filled the air over the even warning tones of locked missiles. Winters scanned the skies from horizon to horizon and saw nothing before resorting to a quick glance down at his central MFD.

Blue Force tracks- _friendlies_ \- had appeared where they had not been only moments before to include an icon indicating a carrier off the coast of Panama with two Valkyrie squadrons inbound, and four additional squadrons closing from the east. The iconography of InfoLink told Winters that the additional Valkyrie squadrons had locked onto the Cavaliers with long-range intercept missiles using Sea Breeze's superior radar range to acquire. It also became clear to Winters that Sea Breeze, the platform to which he, his squadron, and the Vigilantes had gone to for their InfoLink connection had intentionally omitted the Blue Force data from the feed until this moment.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura Kusunoki, UES _Hyperion_ , commanding Stormy Petrel Squadron. Your presence in RDF controlled airspace is unauthorized, ASC squadron commander, and I have been authorized to reply to aggressive action _accordingly._ I recommend you look to your left and then to your right before you answer this next question-. What are your intentions?"

Winters alternated between watching high and just off to port of his nose where the Phantoms of Cavalier Squadron were now visible as grey dots against the deep blue sky and his tactical display. The inbound ASC squadrons closing from the south were now clearly in orbit at the verge of Southern Cross airspace, still a pack of wolves- but a pack pacing indecisively as they waited for their alpha to strike or retreat.

"I thought so.", LCDR Kusunoki said evenly. The tense, finger-on-the-trigger edge of his voice a few moments earlier had dulled slightly as it became clear that there would not have to be a bloodbath, "Disengage your attack radar and exit RDF airspace on your present course, ASC squadron commander."

Winters' threat warning system went quiet as the radar beams that had been bathing _Marilyn_ with malicious intent subsided. As quickly- more quickly than he would have suspected- the squadron leader deactivated his own attack radar and safetied his weapons.

The Cavaliers were now close enough that the fine details of their sleek fighters could be seen, and as they approached to pass high on Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadrons' port side Winters couldn't help but think of them as looking like a handful of darts coming at him. They had lost their points though- so perhaps it was Mathias staring daggers at him that Winters felt.

"This isn't over.", Mathias said over the open frequency, seemingly at no one in particular but almost certainly directly to Winters, "I have a long memory, and the skies aren't that big. See you around."

The squadron of Phantoms whipped by and quickly fell behind on their way back toward the Venezuelan coast Winters craned his neck and twisted in his seat to watch their passage as far as he could, part of him suspecting that Mathias might just have enough of the fighter pilot's gambling spirit to snap a reverse for a parting shot.

He didn't, nor did any of the Cavaliers in his command- but Winters couldn't resist.

"Miss me."

"Do you have a handle, Commander?", Mumuni asked after a long pause in any conversation.

Winters felt the jitters coming on as the steel ball in his stomach continued to melt into perspiration that he suddenly realized had already saturated his body.

"Takeo, Colonel, ma'am.", the carrier pilot replied.

Mumuni came back, the irritation in her voice clear, "And how long were you planning on standing on the sidelines before stepping in, Takeo? I _was_ wearing clean underwear this morning. We damn near had a shooting match there."

"My apologies, ma'am.", Kusunoki explained, "We were stretching to get into position. The flights from _Atlas_ and _Vulcan_ had to burn the skies to get into place."

The heaviness of exhaustion was settling quickly on Winters who to prevent another conflict from a rise in Mumuni's temper (as was known to happen) interjected, "Still, we should thank you for your assistance, Takeo."

"Lieutenant Colonel Winters, I assume?", Kusunoki asked.

"Jack- to my friends, and those who pull my ass out of the fire."

"Don't thank me just yet, Jack.", Kusunoki advised in a reserved tone, "Colonels, my orders are essentially the same as the ASC commander's- only I'm supposed to escort you north- or shoot you down, of course."

"Typical.", Mumuni said, her voice having gone from irritated to agitated.

"SOUTHAMCOM and CENTAMCOM have been monitoring since about the minute you started poking the Southern Cross hornet's nest. Pardon me for saying so, but you've stirred up a real shit-storm through the whole area. We were sent up to hook you and bring you in- scaring off the ASC was coincidental."

Winters sighed heavily as an old saying with references to frying pans and fires came to mind, "Well, at least thanks for not shooting us down. What do we do now?"

"Stay on your course until we join up.", Kusunoki instructed, "We'll take you as far as Galveston where someone else will pick you up and bring you in. Other than that, enjoy the flight- with the mess you've caused, it'll probably be your last in a Valkyrie."

Winters smiled to himself with the same humor as a condemned man finding amusement at the sight of a gallows. It was unlikely, but he could imagine from Kusunoki's last statement that he had been in direct contact and conversation with Major General Butler.

Winters further mused as the carrier-based Valkyries swept in and turned to bracket his formation that the best outcome he could expect might be trading his fighter pilot's wings for an angel's- assuming of course the standards had dropped.

Winters looked off to his port to find the flight leader of the Stormy Petrels studying him from no more than two plane's wingspans away. As the flight, laden heavily with air-to-air armaments, eased forward to assume a leading position Winters noticed the squadron insignia on their tails.

A grim reaper rode a diving black bird, whose exaggerated talons left trails of flame. The reaper's sickle, raised the way a cavalryman might brandish a saber on charging into battle was poised to strike at an invisible foe. The phrase, stenciled in a gothic type stood out to Winters and found a resonance- "Bad Times Are Coming".

"Yeah.", Winters laughed quietly, "No shit."

Lyle watched the escorting fighters pull into position through the VC-33's front windscreen and side windows as the flight crew worked around him in the cramped cockpit and tried to ease down from the stress of the previous minutes. It had gone unsaid between everyone aboard the cargo aircraft, but had been silently understood, that had shooting started and despite the VC-33's mission-appropriate countermeasure systems- it was likely that the cargo plane would have been a casualty to the aerial duel.

That danger was behind now, but other concerns were rising in the minds of the crew.

"Takeo, we're going to need to arrange for a tanker. This bucket is going to be running on vapors before we even see the Texas coast.", the VC-33 pilot advised his new flight leader as Lyle listened in on the headset he'd been wearing since take-off.

"Copy that.", Kusunoki acknowledged, "Arrangements are already in the works. Hang in there, happy hour's coming and the drinks are on the Navy."

"Not soon enough- but thanks.", replied the cargo plane's pilot, before adding solely to those around him in the cockpit, "I _gotta_ get a new job."

Lyle's mind was working furiously as he had developed new concerns with the arrival of The Stormy Petrels and their sharing of their orders.

"We ain't quite outta tha woods yet, pard'.", Lyle said to the pilot.

The pilot looked back at the Valkyrie plane captain for a moment with an expression that was pure disbelief, "Speak for yourself. If you're talking about your boss- hey, I'll be happy to testify on his behalf and say only the nice things- but they dug their own holes, not mine."

Lyle was long enough in the tooth in military culture to know when a battle was fruitless to be joined- especially with an officer. His concern, and the eventual argument was not to be with this officer though.

"Can I borra' yer workstation back here?"

The plane's pilot was already focused again on flying his aircraft in formation and on monitoring his fuel situation.

"Sure, knock yourself out. Check my email while your on-."

Lyle had already slipped aft of the cockpit into the cargo bay where his ground crew studied him with some curiosity as he sat down at the InfoLink-enabled workstation and began to search through the menus for the storage directory he required.

 **Brasilia**

The three micronian bodies that had been dragged back to the plaza reached their final destination at the top of a flagpole, bound crudely at the ankles to one another by electrical wire that had been randomly selected for the purpose. The ascent to the pulley at the head of the pole had set the bodies into a sway of lifeless limbs that the wind through the plaza continued.

Onlookers on the plaza itself- mostly Zentraedi who had returned in the aftermath of the chaos surrounding the assassination of Yeshta- milled about the wreckage of treachery that still burned intensely where a speaking platform had stood that morning, and the display of reciprocity. Humans- few, fleeting, and far between- did not linger in the plaza for the perceivable weight of the Zentraedi rage that still hung in the air. As though guilty by association, which a nervous glance at any of the Zentraedi on the plaza told them they were, humans too beheld the display of vengeance that had been raised up as a message.

Zentraedi justice was both swift and brutal.

Kevtok looked out the window of the building that had been Yeshta's base of operations for the day's events before his untimely and unsightly demise. The flagpole with the hoisted bodies of his assassins was directly in his path of view, but Kevtok paid it little mind as he was looking beyond to the burning heap- Yeshta's funeral pyre as it was as the plasma-napalm kindled fire was too intense still to retrieve his body. There would be little left by the time the fire died sufficiently to allow its recovery, but it would be done regardless. It would be done for the same reason that it had been necessary to raise the slaughtered remains of his killers. It would be done for the same reason that plausible substitutes would have been found had the actual assassins escaped.

The message had to be sent- starting this very moment.

"This changes nothing, fundamentally.", Kevtok said in a distant voice, his mind having changed tracks already, "Our mission requirements are a constant. The difference is the tools we have at hand to execute it."

Sub-Commander Fral, with half of his face treated with burn ointments and wrapped in sterile gauze bandages sat on a desktop nearby watching the twisting of the three corpses in the light wind outside. Kevtok had granted him leave from strict protocol in allowing him to sit in the presence of a superior- and for this Fral was grateful as the painkillers he had been given were quite strong ( _micronian_ pain killers- evidence of the species' inability to contend with physical adversity) and he was almost as unsteady in standing as he was of mind presently.

"Lord", Fral said hesitantly, "Action Commander Yeshta was the bond that held the factions together. With him gone-."

Kevtok half-turned on his heel and looked the diminished specimen of an officer over out of the corner of his eye, saying, "We have you. You were Yeshta's lieutenant, were you not?"

"Very briefly, Lord.", Fral conceded meekly.

"Irrelevant.", Kevtok resolved, "The _bond_ that held the factions together under Yeshta was the only bond that matters to Zentraedi- The Warrior's Code. As warriors, the factions are obliged to follow you. Once we have rebuilt in them the sense that they are warriors, there will be greater unity and the lines of _faction_ will dissolve."

Fral rose to his feet with a slight, medicated sway. It was one thing to sit in the presence of a superior- but quite another and less defensible to address one from the seated position, regardless of injuries sustained.

"Lord, perhaps another course of action. Warriors would rally more quickly behind you as Te'Dak Tohl. The time required to solidify the factions would drop to next to nothing-."

"And gains made in time would be offset by losses in secrecy.", Kevtok replied, rejecting the idea, "Only those whose knowing it is essential must know that Te'Dak Tohl are among them. If word were to spread among the common warriors, rumors of our purpose would spread. Accurate or inaccurate, the rumors would eventually reach the micronians and begin to raise alarm. That would be counterproductive to our purpose. No, the warriors must follow you, Fral."

Whether it was the pain killers at work or the inescapable burden that had befallen him pressing down, Fral found he had to sit and resumed his position on the desktop.

"I do not know if I can do what Yeshta did, Lord."

Kevtok's response was stern and impatient, "You _will_. You are Zentraedi, and you are an officer, and I require you to perform your duty. You are in shock now, understandably- you're wounded and you've lost a leader. You do not see the opportunity potential this day has given us though. Many warriors are looking for a leader this day. You simply need to assume that role."

Fral accepted that he had just been issued an order, though the form was less than conventional.

"How, Lord?"

Kevtok thought for a moment, his arms folded over his chest in his habitual display of the act before nodding out at the bodies suspended from the flagpole.

"That will be a good start, Fral. Issue the order that the bodies of the assassins will remain as an example until they rot off at the ankles."

"The micronians will not tolerate that, Lord.", Fral warned, "They have unusual concerns and customs concerning their dead."

"Excellent.", Kevtok said, sounding genuinely pleased, "We should hope that they should try to take our trophies from us. The more violently the better. Have guards posted night and day and order the position be defended to the last- in Yeshta's honor. I think you'll find that you have great credibility in issuing this order- seeing as how you were badly wounded at his side when he was killed."

"I was in the crowd, Lord."

"Were you? Not anymore. I believe you were faithfully at his side, as he wanted you to be.", Kevtok corrected, "Succession and continuity of command is established that way."

Fral nodded, understanding finally through the haze of drugs, "I see, Lord."

Kevtok looked back out across the plaza.

"Issue your orders. I think you'll find them obeyed."

Warriors were massing again and there was a sense that they were in need of direction.

 **Camp Conrad**

Hills and the assaulting of them had a particular historical romance to it as far as popular culture and Whilite's understanding of it went. Give "hill" the antecedent of your choice; "Bunker", "San Juan", "Bloody Nose", "Pork Chop", "Hamburger", or the near limitless list of lesser or selectively known names, and in the coupling of the two were immediately conjured images of conquest of the insurmountable by bravery, determination, and sacrifice.

As Lt. Whilite and 3rd Platoon charged at an aggressive pace up the hill in the Amazon Jungle that had served as position for a reconstituting rogue Zentraedi mortar position, it became clear to the platoon commander that this hill would not be one of them. "Arty" had done his work too well.

"Clear!", came the calls from each Ranger who happened across a heap of mangled flesh that had been a micronized, rogue Zentraedi warrior before a spray of flechette and shrapnel had reduced them to little more than bloody compost. Not quite the "blending into" the terrain that all warriors sought to attain.

Still, the practice to check and verify that each enemy passed was no longer a threat to the platoon was adhered to by each Ranger of 3rd Platoon. Neglect and carelessness carried with it a heavy price in the CZ.

"Clear!", Whilite called as he plowed through the revulsion of realizing his left foot was ankle-deep in the mess he was just declaring to be safe to the Rangers around him.

 _-When you put your hand into a pile of goo that was your best friend's face a minute ago-._

Whilite stifled the snicker of gallows humor and focused on the sweeping task to exorcise George C. Scott from his mind.

The hill, the plants, trees, and animals on it unlucky enough to be caught in the artillery strike had fared scarcely better than the Zentraedi 3rd Platoon was encountering. Air bursting shells had stripped trees of leaves, limbs, and in some cases even the bark on the sides of their trunks facing the explosion where they remained standing. Whilite had even gotten a glimpse of a mass of brightly colored feathers strewn about amongst shredded leaves- evidence of a jungle bird, though suspiciously without blood or gore to suggest it had perished in the attack.

The artillery strike had not been directed at the trees of the rain forest or its birds though. The object of the strike, and the fate of the Zentraedi who had been manning the position was less ambiguous than the fate of the owner of the scattered plumage Whilite had seen.

The crest of the hill had come up quickly in the face of non-existent resistance, and Whilite found himself third to the top behind one of the Rangers of his squad and Byerly. The build-up of uncertainty of what would be waiting for him and the tensions associated with it left Whilite in a rush as he found as little resistance at the mortar position as had been encountered on the hillside leading to it. Like the Zentraedi warriors who'd been constructing it- ten to a dozen or so from what Whilite could surmise from strewning of mangled torsos and dismembered body parts- the mortar tubes had reached the end of their useful lives and lay perforated where the artillery shells had struck them down.

"Echo One Actual, Echo Three.", Whilite said over his radio as a quick survey of the hilltop revealed the only thing left living was the growing cloud of buzzing insects that could always be counted upon to quickly locate a feeding opportunity, "Hilltop secure."

"Three, Actual.", Nguyen's voice replied, "Begin an inventory. I'll be there shortly."

"Copy that.", Whilite said, looking at the smashed weapon tubes and the half-dozen transport crates of mortars they would have fired had the position gone operational. Whilite shook his head as he said to Byerly, "That was kind of anti-climactic."

Byerly shrugged as she lifted an intact Kalashnikov by the butt-end of the shoulder strap from a heap of fly-infested Zentraedi flesh and deposited it again along a clear and level patch of ground.

"Fine by me, Lieutenant.", Byerly said, wiping a small amount of Zentraedi blood from her fingers onto the dead leaves of the ground, "That's why they call artillery the king of battle."

"Roger that.", Whilite agreed and in nodding to the position around him, "You gotta wonder how many of these will get up and running for nightfall though."

"Some.", admitted Byerly, "That's the good thing about the CZ, El-Tee, always plenty of work for folks in our profession."

"Job security with the possibility of early retirement- _swell._ "

Byerly was unaffected by her commander's dark musings, "Well, it is what it is. Welcome to The Control Zone. –I better get on the horn with Conrad and get an EOD team in here to police this crap up-."

Whilite gave his nod of agreement, "Do that. I'm sure the Captain'll want to be on the move again soon. –Don't want to miss more job opportunities afterall-."

 **Edwards Air Force Base, California**

 _Marilyn'_ s canopy opened with a rush of hot, desert air that embraced Winters with the comfortable familiarity of an old blanket. The sun was standing high in the sky now as the Valkyrie's nose swung left and the fighter rolled from the runway apron onto the tarmac. The heat of the day was dancing in waves off of the concrete and the expanse of the Rogers Lakebed, and with the fighter's cockpit open it invaded the space mercilessly. Unlike the sultry heat of Salvador Base, Winters embraced this dry heat like an old friend and as another sensory exhibit that he was indeed home.

Home.

Home, but not to be enjoyed for long to be sure.

Winters had lost sight of the Vigilantes as his fighter had rolled slowly to the end of the runway after landing and to the runway ramp. The line of Valkyries from the other squadron by this time had already half-disappeared behind a row of HASes and when Winters had occasion to look again they had been swallowed entirely by the tarmac that was "home" to them. All the while, the Gunslingers and the Tempests out of Nellis- who had seen them "safely" back to Edwards from Galveston- circled above in lazy orbits of the lake bed.

Winters wondered if the same sight greeted Mumuni that he found awaiting him.

Apparently there were doubts as to whether the pilots of the two squadrons were prepared to own up to what they had done and submit to the inevitable justice. Winters' first reaction to this thought was to feel insulted. Major General Butler had known him for years- more than long enough to see him stand up to take the lickings for his misdeeds.

An afterthought- an attempt to see the greeting that awaited him in the best possible light had Winters considering that after the day's events, and not having been directly involved in any of them or in the underlying circumstances, Butler was only acting prudently as his responsibilities demanded.

Who knew anything anymore?

In this mindset, it was easier to accept the two military police vans that stood side by side on the tarmac with a large detachment of MPs standing nearby. Winters had found in the past that the rear passenger compartments of these vans were spacious and fairly comfortable in comparison to the snug fit of a Valkyrie's cockpit. A ride in one, which Winters was sure he'd be having soon, would be a welcome change.

What was not welcome, and what struck Winters harder than he would have expected it to as a ground crew moved in around _Marilyn_ to chock her tires as her engines powered down was the uncomfortable feeling he got when he saw Butler at the center of the crowd of MPs. It wasn't his presence Winters realized as a ladder was moved into place for him as the expression on his friend's face. It was a merging of the agonies of knowing a friend's guilt in a dire offense with the absolute inability to do anything about it.

Winters' leather wheel cap shielded his head from the sun as his sunglasses shielded his eyes as his boot soles met the ground again. There was nothing to shield him from the high-simmer stare of Major General Butler though as the base commander approached the squadron leader with an escort of six MPs.

"Hello, Arnie-.", Winters said, abandoning protocol entirely without even an attempt at a salute, "-Been the Devil's own day, hasn't it?"

Winters expected a verbal assault to equal the worst thunderstorm to come from Butler.

Instead, Butler's tone was even- though tense, and the smoldering burn that now looked to Winters more like pain than anger never left his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Nigel- I've done the best for you that I could. You're really done this time-. You know that, don't you?"

Winters nodded the acknowledgement of his fate and said with his best German, " _Cooler-. Thirty days."_

Butler motioned to the pilots now joining he and Winters with the company of two MPs apiece.

"Get him off my flight line. Get them _all_ off my flight line."

231


	10. Too Dark- Too Dark Altogether

**Chapter Nine**

 **..Too Dark-**

 **Too Dark Altogether…**

"This ain' no world fer cowboys no more-."

"Sheeyt, ain' that tha truth?! -`N here's why. Cowboys're all `bout seein' what's right `n doin' it."

"Period."

"These days ya got a law, regulation, or rule fer every damn thing `n all made up by a bunch'a peckerwoods that wouldn't know what's right if it flew up, landed on their shoulder, `n put its tallywhacker in their ear."

"Immoral men dictatin' morality, `n with the authority to do it-. The world tradin' what's right fer what's legal-. `N all the while, folks ready to string up the very ones they're cryin' to ta do somethin'."

"Ain't no world fer cowboys no more, `n maybe tha world don't desserve `em no more neither."

" _Sheeyt-_ If there ain' no way `round it though, might as well go down standin' up `n guns blazin'."

"Worse things in this world than dyin' with yer boots on though."

Senior Master Sergeant Lyle DeVeo, Plane Captain, 623rd Knight Hawk Squadron

 **RDF Regional Training Center 32,**

 **Falkirk, Scotland**

In the way that mist or fog evaporated with time in the sun, so had the funk evaporated that had hung over Training Platoon 6045 with the brief but sound period of sleep afforded to the recruit trainees.

Traces remained certainly, like a bad odor or a faded stain in fabric that would never completely come out- but the funk itself was gone. Perhaps with the fatigue and exhaustion that had fed it gone it had simply smothered. Perhaps in quiet moments spent in bunks in the dark as sleep began to take the recruit trainees, second thoughts and better judgment prevailed. Maybe it was just that the day's events were just commonly reflected upon as another hardship of training and one best learned from and put behind as the next day promised a new set of trials as well as challenges revisited. Perhaps there was a realization that the funk and the previous night's course to resolve it required energy that the training platoon could not afford to spare in the face of O'Shae's regiment of instruction. It may have been a combination of all in varying proportions per the individual.

The funk was gone as a force if not forgotten though.

Oatmeal the same color as the previous day's creamed beef, that was ominously similar in color to the powdered eggs that had come the day before that, awaited the recruit trainees at the mess hall serving line with the normal offerings of canned and reconstituted fruits and a choice of baked selections that contested the suggestion that they had ever been fresh. Training Platoon 6045 was content to eat quickly and quietly though as the tables filled. The specter of the morning's- possibly even the _day's_ \- activities loomed large ahead: re-raising The Wall. All thought about it, but none spoke of it over cups of strong, generic coffee and tea.

For no other reason that Andy could tell than the bench being open, Cattermole planted himself and his tray (adorned with a double-helping of oatmeal) directly to his right. Having been focused on Pamela Dunn and particularly her T-shirt that fit her so well, Andy had barely noticed that Fisher Kingsley was one space over from her side and now directly across from Cattermole.

If Andy had not noticed, Kingsley had immediately.

Something had to be said to break the silence that had become immediately awkward, though Andy for the life of him could not think of anything that might come close to doing that.

Fortunately, Cattermole relieved him of the burden.

"You said you'd call, love."

Not finding the statement particularly funny because of his proximity to the event it hinted at, Andy was nonetheless compelled to laugh as Pamela Dunn returned some of the powdered orange juice she'd been drinking at the moment to its glass through her nostrils- the most visible reaction in the mingling of snickers along the table from those who had heard.

"Sod off, Aunt Moggie.", Kingsley replied with only the maliciousness required to save face in this moment- the previous night's contest having been a loss without dispute.

"No second date for you then.", Cattermole said between two oversized spoonfuls of oatmeal. Time was fleeting. The recruit trainees were growing accustomed to the small window of time granted them to take in a meal to the point where the clock on the wall over the beverage stations was hardly needed anymore.

"Suits me fine.", Kingsley said dipping his spoon into his own bowl of oatmeal that was now half-empty.

Cedric watched Cattermole eat over Andy's dining activities, and found it necessary to ask, "You _did_ wash your hands, right?"

Cattermole licked a spot of oatmeal away from his forefinger that had somehow found its way there from his spoon, "Getting around to it."

A collective groan of disgust rose from around the table with the exception of Kingsley who had paled but remained silent with the realization that there was nothing he could say that could possibly better his situation. Sometimes silent suffering was the only course.

"What?", Cattermole countered to the subsiding groans while brandishing a spoonful of alleged oatmeal, "It's no worse than _this_."

Pamela Dunn, still patting a napkin to her nose to catch the last drops of expelled orange juice before they could further dot the swell of her T-shirt the way the first of the gush had, said, "Well, that's it for my appetite."

"Not game for a comparison tasting?", Kingsley asked with mock optimism.

"Not _even_ in your wildest dreams.", Dunn replied as she patted her napkin pointlessly over the wet spots on her chest under Andy's keen observation. Her concern was modest at best as her BDU blouse would cover what had not dried by second assembly and inspection. Noticing Andy's attention, or perhaps just finally acknowledging it, she offered the napkin to him.

"If it's so interesting to you, you might as well help."

Andy blinked and attempted to back-pedal, "Sorry-. Off in my own world."

"Yeah, I see. Planet Mammary, I suspect-."

 _Damn hormones._

"They're cigarette burns.", Cattermole said, suddenly rejoining the conversation.

Dunn, having had no chance of knowing what Cattermole referred to replied indignantly, "Very healthy C-cups, _thank you very much-._ "

Cattermole offered his left arm for inspection, the inner arm turned up to all to reveal the irregular line of scars that ascended from his wrist.

" _That_ ", he said pointing to a scar at random with his spoon, "is the one you get when you don't push the day's quota. And _this_ is the one you get when you get pinched on a smash and grab-."

Silent fascination, the kind that once had made freak shows lucrative, followed the trainee's unprompted guided tour to his scarring.

" _That one_ was for mouthing off- if you can imagine that. And _this one_ here- I never figured out what that one was for-."

Pamela Dunn's mouth was agape though no longer with the implication that her breasts were being underappraised, " _Christ- who did all of that to you?_ "

Cattermole shrugged with the lack of a good answer to a question he showed to regard as unimportant, "Nobody. Lots of _nobodies_ over the years. I just had my fill of taking it from _nobody_. –But it wasn't _me_. I'll admit to having a long list of brutes who kicked the shit out of me before I'll get lumped in with _cutters_ though. They're a bunch of right twisted fucks."

"Heard that, did you?", Cedric asked knowing that it was his speculation from the night before to which Cattermole referred.

Cattermole shook his head, saying around a mouthful of oatmeal, "Learn to whisper properly if you have to talk about someone."

"Wasn't anything personal.", Andy said, knowing he should finish his breakfast before the day began in earnest but finding that he hadn't the stomach for it at the moment.

"Didn't say it was.", Cattermole said indifferently, "Just said you should learn to whisper. Anyone care to see where they rub a fag out on you when they think you've shorted them money?"

" _Fuck me…_ ", Kingsley muttered with the same tone of disgust that might be expected from one finding fresh kill on the shoulder of a country road. It may have been Kingsley's own imagination fueling the remark of distaste, or perhaps it was his reaction to Cattermole's apathy on the whole matter.

"I think we're done.", Andy said with inappropriate curiosity still tugging at him but ceding to the more socially acceptable stance that it was a subject best dropped.

"What's wrong?-.", Cattermole asked with a shrug, "That's the world."

And perhaps it was.

The silence at the table was complete, and eating had ceased.

It was just as well though as O'Shae's training sergeants burst into the mess hall with the same bellowing call to rise and depart as they did every morning.

It was to be a long day for the recruit trainees of Training Platoon 6045, but days at Falkirk Regional Training Center 32 always were.

 **Camp Conrad**

It had been said that you never hear the one that gets you.

Second Lieutenant Edward Whilite had cached away that nugget of lore and had carried it with him for the comfort, false or real, that it promised to bring him. Now he wasn't so sure. With a firefight and now two mortar attacks (the second still technically "in progress") under his belt, he had heard the report of many an enemy rifle, and the approach of a good number of mortar rounds- all of which he was sure were going to get him.

What was saving him from the fear of it all, he had reflected in the four seconds of time he'd found for himself in the jungle after the previous night's skirmish with the column of advancing rogue Zentraedi was that he was constantly occupied. There was always a decision, or a task, or a detail to be attended to even at his low level of command and it occupied the mind. Whilite considered that the common wisdom that told you that you never heard the one that got you should be revised to say- _you're probably too busy to notice the one that gets you, before it gets you._

Whilite had never considered himself a vessel of sage-like wisdom, nor a competent conveyer of it- but it seemed closer to the truth. He did know now that he didn't particularly like those four seconds of quiet reflection he had in the dawn hours in the jungle, because four seconds apparently was all it took for fear to find you and to take firm hold.

Fear had a firm hold on Whilite again as Conrad quivered with the hiss and rush of an automatic counter-battery rocket system that threw four rockets back along the same trajectory as a mortar shell it had detected mid-flight. With great accuracy and lethality, a half dozen counter-battery units had been replying to sporadic mortar attack on the camp all night- putting the defender's response into the air before the offending mortar shells reached their targets.

Whilite had not seen the resulting explosions from the counter-battery fire, but had heard (when the incoming rounds had not been too numerous) the distant pop of explosions in the jungle. These sounds, indicative of nothing in themselves, did however seem to promise the end of a rogue Zentraedi mortar position with each chain of explosions when coupled with the fact that no two incoming salvos had come from the same point of origin so far as Whilite could tell.

This led Whilite to another thought albeit brief: that mortar positions and the rogue Zentraedi that crewed them for that matter were not unlike cockroaches in a dumpy, inner-city apartment. If you didn't get them all, you really hadn't accomplished anything.

What had he, had 3rd Platoon- had all of Echo Company and the probing units of Conrad been doing all day before the onset of night had necessitated their return to within the relative security of the camp's perimeter? At best, Conrad's garrison had reduced the number of rogue Zentraedi and available mortar weapons- but how many had been reduced out of how many still battle effective?

There was no answer.

There was only to slug it out blindly with an enemy whose exact size and composition was unclear. Technologies and weapons aside, it was boiling down to the same contest man had always had with himself before he had extraterrestrials to call "foe"- it was going to be a match of competing determination.

The battle of wills appropriately weighed, there was some benefit to the technologies the RDF Army was bringing to bear. Early in the evening, when all of Conrad's patrolling units had collapsed back to within the perimeter and had been accounted for- a swarm of RAV-6 Gadflies had assumed their duties and deployed into the deepening murk of the jungle. Whilite had even monitored alternately the two dozen feeds ("Tink-TV") from his PICS until an abundance of nothing more interesting than views of jungle in light enhancement with IR infusion coupled with the constant tension of expecting to see more over each hill or in each gully drove him to relegate that duty to the self-named "Lost Boys"- the RAV-6 pilots and specialists.

Whilite was fairly sure he'd know if the patrolling mini-UAVs crossed paths with anything threatening or interesting- probably in the form of outgoing artillery fire.

Whilite returned quickly to exactly where he was as a mortar round split the air overhead (likely the very mortar round that the counter-battery rocket system had replied to a few moments earlier) and exploded somewhere to Whilite's rear. There was not question that while they too were slugging blind, the unseen Zentraedi aggressors could still inflict real damage. Shards of shrapnel from the air-bursting round struck the sandbag covered roof of the improvised bunker Whilite and 1st Squad had returned from patrol to find prepared for them by the base's engineers. The sharp snap of metal shards slicing through nylon and embedding themselves into firmly packed earth was a vivid reminder of the hurt the Zentraedi could still render.

So much for not hearing the one that got you.

"They're just fuckin' with us now.", Sgt. Byerly remarked, the last of her words accompanied by a distant ripple of exploding rockets in the jungle and likely the end of the mortar position that had thrown the last round.

"Rounds're dropping all over the place.", the sergeant observed while peering outt of the bunker's slit opening, past the perimeter microwave fences some thirty meters ahead, and to the treeline beyond, "Their forward observers must be feeling the burn."

 _Feeling the burn_ was at least a partially accurate description of what Byerly meant, as Whilite understood it. Not every weapon in the RDF Army's inventory fired a projectile or a laser, though this made them no less suited for tasks such as perimeter defense. A case in point was the M-221 FEW, more affectionately known as "Jiffy Pop".

A "focused energy weapon", the M-221 was essentially a vehicle-mounted, directional microwave emitter. The weapon even at its highest setting lacked the power to kill an adversary of human size unless the target was subjected to a prolonged exposure to the invisible microwave beam- but it would make an impression. The microwave beam did have sufficient power to raise liquids on and in the skin of a target to a boil, causing instant blistering and extreme pain as could be expected with any steam burn. The highest setting of the weapon would not kill immediately, but had on occasion been witnessed to cause the vitreous fluid in a target's eyes to react in the same way- grotesquely bursting the organs.

Whilite had never seen this to his relief, but as an M-221 mounted with its portable generator on a Wolverine land rover to his bunker's rear swept the treeline with its beam he did hear the _snap_ and see the white puff of insects that were instantly cooked- hence "Jiffy Pop".

Given the nature of the M-221, Whilite had more confidence in Byerly's speculation about Zentraedi forward observers than he had in the popular myth of not hearing the round that got you. The microwave beam would not penetrate with any effectiveness very deep into dense foliage as what surrounded Camp Conrad, maybe thirty to forty meters at best- but that kept any forward observer far enough back to render them useless to a mortar team in the rear. They would have to continue to shoot blind and hope for luck.

PFC Valliero, his M-35 loaded and safetied- but in the nearby corner of the bunker as he favored the company of the M-7B Squad-Level Medium Energy Weapon ("SMEW", popularly), stared intently into the same bush as his platoon sergeant and lieutenant. Whilite sensed in the Ranger who in truth looked only slightly younger than he an intensity in his scanning of the treeline that was not so much nervousness, but an eagerness to simply have the tension broken. Whilite considered for a moment whether the soldier might be thinking that his gaze, like the microwave beam of the M-221, might penetrate the forest more deeply if only the power was turned up.

"Y'ever figure how weapons that keep the enemy from fighting actually work against us?", Valliero said as he put the stock of the rapid-fire particle beam weapon before him to his shoulder and followed the path of the M-221's microwave beam over the sights by training on the pop of insects in its path.

"How do you figure?", Byerly asked not sounding particularly interested in the subject, but probably preferring the white noise of pointless conversation to the unpunctuated mingling of night sounds and anticipation of another incoming mortar salvo.

"Well, that Jiffy Popper-.", Valliero explained readily, having apparently been working on his theory for some time, "-It keeps the dittos back from the perimeter- right?"

"Seems to.", Byerly agreed, not wanting to impede the Ranger's dissertation, "I wouldn't stand in front of it anyway."

"Well, that's the problem.", Valliero said, "They can't cross the fence because that'll kill `em, but we don't even let `em edge up to it."

"You're losing me, Valliero.", Byerly said sounding slightly more interested.

Whilite was fairly certain that he knew where Valliero was going with this as the private continued.

"Well, how are we supposed to ever kill `em if we can't get `em in our sights?", Valliero asked, "We get all these fancy gadgets that _incapacitate_ \- but a ditto you just knock down is gonna get back up- right? So what's the point? Enough of this techno-shit _depresses_ the enemy at a hundred meters-! _Fuck me_ \- the damn egg-heads that come up with this shit oughta come out here for a change and see how great an idea it all is. If you ask me, I like the old fashion idea of one bullet per customer. Dead dittos don't come back for round two."

Byerly laughed, "You're a real, steely-eyed killer there, Valliero- you've found a home in the Army."

"Too bad they don't ask.", Whilite said, adding to the conversation without truly attempting to enter it, "The egg-heads, that is."

"Damn right, El-Tee.", agreed Valliero, "Or at least send us a microwave that cooks `em like a frozen burrito. Otherwise we're gonna all be out here in the bush until we're sixty. War's _hell_ , not _heck-._ "

Whilite shook his head realizing he understood the private completely, "I guess some things shouldn't be sanitized. Sort of defeats the purpose."

"Fuck yeah, El-Tee… _Fuck yeah._ "

"Well", Byerly said shifting her gaze alternately between the treeline and Whilite, "-When three Rangers are standing around debating the philosophies of war like Tsung Tsu, I figure that means there isn't a lot going on. How long since you've had any shut-eye, Lieutenant?"

Whilite thought a moment and in the blur of events that had been his past few days, he couldn't remember the last time he had actually dedicated any period of time to sleep.

"Couldn't say.", Whilite replied, "You're not suggesting I nod off while on watch, are you?"

"Sure am.", Byerly said unrepentantly, "Nothing's going down now, and we're going to have a full day tomorrow I'm sure- a full _couple of days_ , probably. Seize the opportunity where you can. I promise not to let you sleep through anything exciting."

Suddenly Whilite was feeling the sleepless hours he'd accumulated and the tempting offer sounded even better with Byerly's validation of it.

"Half an hour.", Whilite agreed.

"Two hours.", Byerly countered, looking at her watch.

Whilite settled onto a carrying case that had been brought into the bunker to serve as a seat and found he could recline with some comfort against a wall of sandbags, "Looks like we've agreed on ninety minutes."

"Done.", Byerly agreed, "Assuming the dittos don't have other plans, I'll go next, and then Valliero."

"I'm last?", Valliero asked, "That sucks."

"Chain of command.", Byerly said, a mix of glee and mild sadism to her voice, "Welcome to the Army, Tsung Tsu."

Valliero was starting to counter with another remark, but the words were distant and formless to Whilite who was reacquainting himself with the insides of his own eyelids. The exchange between Valliero and Byerly would likely still be there in ninety minutes.

So would the Zentraedi.

 **Edwards Air Force Base**

For the second time in under a week, Lt Col Nigel Patrick Winters stood at attention before the desk of Major General Arnold Butler in anticipation of what course and form discipline would follow.

Luck, or decency, or a combination of both had had it so that Winters had been given the opportunity to shower and shave before his appearance before the base commander, and had even been provided with a change of underclothes to wear beneath the flight suit he'd first put on the morning before and thousands of kilometers away on Salvador Base. Also, as fate would have it Winters had the marginal comfort of not having to stand alone before Butler. Colonel-select Ganyet Mumuni stood to Winters' right, also at attention and apparently with the same humane considerations afforded for hygiene.

The greater comfort to Winters though was that Mumuni and he were the only officers from either squadron standing before Major General Butler. The base stockade, having only a half dozen cells to it had received only Winters and Mumuni- the last glimpse either officer having of their subordinates being their faces looking out at them before the rear doors of the MP trucks had shut and the vehicles had pulled away to points unknown.

Winters had been aware after being locked into the cell that would house him overnight that Mumuni was similarly caged to his right with an empty cell between them with the likely intention to discourage conversation. The measure had been unnecessary though as after the heavy snap of the lock bolts going into place, the only sound to be heard was the hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft hiss of the air from the circulation vents. Neither pilot had said a word to the other before retiring to their respective wall-mounted bunks for lack of anything better to do.

Winters could not say whether Mumuni had lain awake all night in contemplation of the day's events or had tried to sleep in the spotless white cell that wreaked of bleach and floor wax and whose lights had never been dimmed to Winters' knowledge in his multiple stays at the facility.

Winters, for his part, had slept.

He had not expected to, nor had he intended to, but in the only pleasant surprise he'd had all week sleep had hit him quickly and had taken him soundly. Only the rattle of the MP's baton on the bars the following morning and brief words to inform him that he'd have ten minutes to ready himself to meet the CO had roused him.

And here he was- only the room was larger and appointed appropriately for its purpose, and the hum of lights was louder with the presence of more fluorescent tubes. No Knight Hawks, no Vigilantes, just Butler, Mumuni, he and the business at hand that brought them together.

Major General Butler who had sat behind his desk for moments, minutes, hours- _an eternity_ \- silently, but with the same simmering expression of helpless disappointment mingled with rage that had greeted Winters the day before on the tarmac took a moment to flip open a simple manila folder that sat squarely on the center of his work space before speaking finally.

"Your squadrons are not present because the determination has been made that their actions were at worst simply out of line with official joint operational orders as provided by Gemini. A letter of reprimand will be entered into each of their jackets, but no formal charges will be filed."

"I should thank you for that- it's just.", Winters said.

Butler picked up coldly after Winters' last syllable as though the squadron leader's words had been as consequential to the meeting underway as the humming of the fluorescent lights, "Damn right it's just, and don't you _dare_ interrupt me again while I'm speaking, Nigel- you're barely clinging to a justifiable claim for human rights in the eyes of the Service…. Getting you _due process_ has been a struggle I won't even get into."

"I should thank you for that too.", Winters said, feeling the weight of Mumuni's thoughts imploring him to just keep his mouth shut in the absence of her being able to stare him down or preferably (to her) to strike him with a heavy object.

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?", Butler asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then even thought it's at the end, I'd suggest that for once in your professional career you follow an order as issued.", Butler said, his voice a lick of ice-encased flame.

"Yes, sir."

Butler drummed his fingers on the pages within the open manila folder before continuing, "I could go down the litany of charges against you both, but I promise the prosecutors from the Judge Advocate General's office will have you more than familiar with them in the weeks to come. So, instead, I'm going to give you the opportunity to help me try to find some way to keep them from absolutely crucifying the both of you. So far, the only thing in your favor is that your little stunt only caused several injuries and a sizable bill of destroyed ASC equipment and property. There's a team of guardian angels working overtime for the two of you, I'd say."

Mumuni cleared her throat slightly, "Permission to speak, sir?"

More easily than he would have allowed Winters, Butler said, "Granted."

Mumuni was silent a moment, clearly working to choose her words carefully, "What can we possibly provide you with in the way of extenuating circumstances? The facts speak clearly- and there's no ambiguity in what we did."

Butler contemplated the point for a moment before saying impatiently, " _Remorse_ and _regret_ might be a hell of a good start, Colonel."

"Fuck that."

The words from Winters were as blunt as they were unexpected and nearly drove Butler's constant simmer into a hard boil.

"Pardon me?", Butler asked in a voice that was as much a dare for Winters to repeat himself as a request for clarification of what had just been said.

Perhaps to be true to what Butler was expecting deep down, or simply because he suddenly found no energy for the game as it was being played now, Winters said again as unoffensively as the words could come,

"Fuck that, _sir_. I neither feel sorry for nor regret what I did. If I could have left a crater in the jungle where Salvador Base stands with the bodies of a select few in it, I would have."

Butler shook his head, having clearly reached the point of having abandoned emotional investment, "Nigel, I'm not sure if there's a term that means _karmic chronic masturbator_ , but I'm sure that your picture would be next to it in the dictionary because you're constantly fucking yourself-. Hasn't it sunk in yet? Did you like the place you spent the night? Because that's what you're going to be spending twenty-three hours of every day of the rest of your life in when the JAG is done with you."

Winters expected to feel anger or indignation, but what suddenly was fueling the familiar fire in him was a lack of either.

"Fine then, I'm screwed.", he said as easily as had he just seen the pot in a hand of penny-poker go to another player, "You're right, Arnie, every little fuck-up in my professional and personal life has been leading me to this moment- and by the letter of the law, I deserve it. I have no remorse for what I've done, and I _won't_ apologize- but I'd hate to drag down all the other people I'd take with me."

"I'm sure Ganyet's touched.", Butler said flatly, "But that bridge was crossed some time ago."

"I wasn't talking about Ganyet.", Winters corrected, "And I'm offering _you_ a last chance, Major General Butler."

Butler blinked, "You've lost your mind-. Or it's finally cracked. What in the name of God are you talking about, Winters? What on Earth can you possibly be offering me a last chance at?"

Winters said with the careless ease of the condemned, "I'm offering you a last chance to make it all go away. Mathias said that scores of people worked day and night to keep the whole filthy operation down there under the radar- now they can keep this quiet for _me_."

"I had a good think about it, and as much as I hate that wormy cocksucker, Mathias was right in everything he said. People know what's going on with the ASC in The Control Zone. People know that the ASC is selling narcotics to subsidize their operations. People know that the ASC is arming Zentraedi elements to maintain control of the narcotics enterprise. People even know that the food, medicine, and supplies allocated for civilian distribution is finding its way into supporting it all. The question is, _who_ knows it? Mathias all but said the chaps from commands up north were in the know and benefiting from their little supply runs before the duty shifted to NORAMWEST. People in transportation and logistics had to know-the flow was two ways and a pretty substantial one it was. That means that people with stars on their shoulders had to know- and God only knows how high up the chain that went. I think the part that really has my knickers in a twist is how right Mathias was in that the system was created and functions because it has to. I didn't like it, so I got in the way."

"I'm screwed, I'll admit it. You can tell the chaps at JAG that this will be a quick trial because I see no point in arguing my innocence in something I'll gladly admit I'm guilty of.. _I'll confess-._ Hell, I'll spill my guts with every detail I can render and for as long as they're willing to take notes, and I have video to support at least some of it. It's going to be interesting to see just how many careers burn for it- but the public response is going to be sheer hell. I'll try to keep your name out of my comments as much as possible, Arnie- I owe you more than one, but the dice will roll-."

At some point that Winters had missed in his unpracticed and rambling monologue, Butler's expression had gone from near-boiling with anger to virtually paled with the full understanding of Witners' threat.

"First-.", Butler said in response, "You're making the assumption that your trial, any of the evidence, or the findings will ever _reach_ the public light, Nigel. They're going to lock you up in a room and throw away the _room_. I tried to warn you not to meddle because there was too much at stake and that the stakeholders had little time or consideration for pleasantries like legality and justice-. You didn't listen. In a month, all of that evidence that you seem to think should scare anyone so badly won't even exist. More than that, it will have _never existed._ It can't. Understand the enormity of the thing with which you're dealing before you think you can hack it down."

Winters countered with a shrug, "I have nothing to lose."

"You haven't thought things over carefully then, Nigel.", Butler corrected, "You haven't considered all of the things and _people_ that you _do_ have to lose- and the people who you're proposing to try to fuck over have full staffs and nothing but time dedicated to _exctly_ those kinds of thoughts. That's a warning from a friend because I won't be able to do _anything_ else to help you if you start down that path- and _nothing_ to protect the people who are going to go into the grinder for it."

"Then that's how it's going to be.", Winters resolved, "There's not a soul I know who'd forgive me first for letting this go before they'd forgive me for having at it and bringing down the consequences."

Butler shook his head again, "I can never tell if you're crazy brave or just stupid, Jack-. I really can't."

"A little of both I'm afraid, Arnie."

"The tragedy is that you just don't comprehend how dangerous that combination is.", Butler fumed, "But you'll learn and it looks like you've chosen to learn the hard way."

Winters had not considered his exchange with Butler to have been particularly loud despite dire threats and implications that had been exchanged in full broadsides between he and his superior. He would have also considered the office door to be of sufficient density to muffle exchanges at elevated volume- Winters having been on the receiving end of more than one in his time at Edwards.

What Winters could not explain and had not anticipated was the unannounced opening of Major General Butler's office door, and the appearance of Lyle's unassuming form from the reception area outside.

To not be derelict in his duties, in the attempt of their execution if nothing else, Butler's aide, Captain Walters was through the door a moment after the plane captain who despite a determined look on his face also showed the minimal measure of respect by removing his Osaka Pistons cap and carrying it in his hands.

"Pardon me sir-.", Walters said taking Lyle forcefully by the right shoulder and arm like a bouncer at a honky-tonk bar in the prelude to "escorting" him out of the office, "He showed up two minutes after Colonel Mumuni and Colonel Winters-. I looked away for a moment and he just walked in. The Colonels' MP detachment is being recalled- they'll handle this too."

Lyle, known to Winters to be considerably stronger from years of a manually labor-intensive profession than his slightly age and beer softened outer appearance suggested, easily shrugged off the captain's grasp without being unduly threatening.

"Hands off fer a sec'nd there, pard-.", Lyle said, "Ah'll say mah peace `n then go with the posse without `nother word said."

Butler's expression showed no recognition for the plane captain and patience for the interruption that dangled by the proverbial thread, "Who are you, and what's this got to do with Winters?- _I know_ this has got to have something to do with Winters."

Lyle identified himself quickly and simply, "Senior Master Sergeant DeVeo, General, sir- Ah'm Lieutenant Colonel Winters' plane captain."

"You're _Knight Hawk Squadron's_ plane captain.", Butler corrected, "Lieutenant Colonel Winters isn't likely to be requiring your services for much longer."

"That's what Ah'm here about, General, sir.", Lyle said respectfully- his hands wrung the bill of his cap without conscious direction as he spoke, "Yer a fair man, `n Ah wanted ta speak fer Jack b`fore this got way outta hand."

"A little late for that, Senior Master Sergeant.", Butler pointed out, "And I don't have time for this-. Walters, get him out of my office."

Lyle took a swift step away from the captain's grasping hand, producing in the same moment a laser disc from his coveralls pocket, "Ya got time fer this, sir."

Winters, Mumuni, and Butler all looked at the disc as though DeVeo had pulled the Holy Grail from his pocket. Obliged to by his position, only Butler voiced the question all were certain they already knew the answer to.

"And that is?"

Lyle, no longer pursued directly by Captain Walters set the disc down on Butler's desk and pushed it toward him the way a poker dealer would move a card, face-down, toward a player.

"That's Jack's ace.", Lyle said firmly but still humbly, "Ah'm real sorry, sir- `n Ah don' like doin' this one bit- but it was just gettin' real clear that there weren't gonna be no justice here."

Butler picked up the disc and compared its insignificant physical weight to the implied weight it carried, saying, "Just for unauthorized duplication and handling of classified materials, Senior Master Sergeant, you could find yourself in the cell next to Winters for the next ten years."

Lyle's spine stiffened with the reporting of an unpleasant truth, "Ah'm doin' worse than that, sir-. That _classified_ material ain't gonna be classified fer too long. That's one of `bout thirty copies Ah made, `n they'll all find their way t`every major television news desk `n every reporter with an axe t`grind `gainst the military by sundown if certain people don' hear otherwise from me. `Fraid t'say, Ah can't afford you the latitude Jack was offerin'-. Wang was good people, y`see- `n yer advice ta Jack ta just drop the fact that Mathias gunned that boy down fer doin' his job don' go over too well on the logged comlink `tween tha two'a ya. Hell, Ah don' reckon the things on that disc'll prove _everything_ Jack 'n me'll claim- but Ah'd advise you `n alotta other folks above ya ta clear yer calendar fer Q `n A fer about the next twenty years."

Butler's face began a progressive change from pink toward purple, " _You little shit-. You're threatening me?!"_

"No sir.", Lyle clarified. Winters was amazed at the NCO's ability to retain his air of respect for the base commander as he all but brandished a weapon at him and even found traces of admiration there. Winters chalked it up to years of dedicated card playing- or perhaps just dealing with the subspecies of humans that were kin to assholes known as _officers._.

"No sir, Ah'm just doin' mah duty. Jack's mah boss, `n Ah'm high on his support staff- it ain' easy sometimes, but _sheeyt-._ If Jack's gotta swing, that's a real sad- but Ah ain't gonna stand around `n see the folks who walked him up the gallows come away smellin' like roses. `N if that means Ah gotta swing too, at least Ah'll have good company. Ah'll spin more yarn than a lady's church craft group b`fore Ah go though, `n you can bet there'll be words from the officers of at least two squadrons ta back me up. Y're right, General, all the evidence in tha world might not amount to a pile`a sheeyt at Jack `n Colonel Mumuni's trials- but even folks with stars answer ta someone- `n those _someones_ usually got political careers to protect, `n they'll be real anxious to look good in front of the folks who'll be seein' what's on that disc on TV. Ah'm just here ta say, General, Ah'm just here ta say. `Round mah parts growin' up, we used to call it a _Mexican standoff_ -. You bein' brighter than me might'a come up callin' it _mutually assured destruction_ -. Anyways, ya gotta ask is the hurt yer gonna put on Jack worth `n worse than tha one's gonna land on you?"

"Ya might just wanna take Jack's suggestion `n see about making it all go away `n just call it a draw. Posses've been known ta get bushwhacked on the way to a lynchin', Ah'm just sayin'."

Butler tossed the disc down to his desktop where it clattered loudly as it sprang from the thin plastic carrying case Lyle had transported it in. The MPs had arrived without ceremony and stood looking hopeful for direction in the presence of a situation that was bizarre and beyond easy comprehension.

Butler waved a finger at the two pilots and the newest arrival to his office, saying to the MPs, "Take them all to the stockade and see that they're isolated from each other and anyone else."

 **RDF Intelligence Annex, RDF Headquarters,**

 **Yellowstone City**

Even at the "wee hours", there was activity within the RDF Intelligence Command to extend to and include the non-mainstream operations, such as the Intelligence Fusion Division.

The work went on around the clock even in "The Warp Core", but after 2000hrs when the office's timers prompted by a programmed mandate from a "green conscious" facilities manager shut off all but one in ten of the overhead florescent light fixtures- the office suite took on a different atmosphere. A "cloak and dagger" feel descended upon what in full light was only rows of neatly arranged and spaced cubicles that could have occupied any commercial office- the disembodied sounds of solitary workers, the clicking of keyboard keys or a soft conversation on a telephone drifting out of the darkness seemed more dramatic.

This was The Warp Core after 2400hrs (when the loving nickname of "The Warped Corps" best applied) and particularly at 0214hrs as CDR Anne Weitzel walked the dimly lit path toward her division chief's office with only the soft working sounds of other office phantoms as company.

Colonel Ephraim Shiloah pulled the door of his office firmly shut, but quietly in consideration for those out in the sea of murk-shrouded cubicles who elected to work late- or _early_ as perspective dictated. The magnetic lock of the heavy wooden door was only the outer-most layer of security to Shiloah's work space. A meticulous ritual of removing classified computer drives from his workstation, and placing they and other assorted materials in his office safe had preceded his final packing of personal items into his briefcase in preparing to leave for the evening- or morning.

Shiloah turned from his door and saw Weitzel's approach from a dozen paces' distance, and reacted with pleasant surprise.

"Don't young people have other things to do with their late nights than sneak up on old men in offices?"

Weitzel shook her head, "I couldn't tell you, Ephraim, this job made me old a long time ago."

Shiloah glanced down to see Weitzel carrying a bound file folder slightly thicker than the quantity of paper it was fashioned to hold.

"Is that your little project?"

Weitzel nodded the same kind of acknowledgment an honor-roll student might grant to a term paper graded as a "B", "The brief life, times, and death of _Ascension_. Cut down before it could bloom, I fear."

Shiloah's face brightened, "Ah, a gardening analogy- my wife would be tickled!- The funny thing about flowers, Anne- especially annuals, is that even when you cut them down, they have a way of coming back when the season is right. Your pet project isn't dead, it just fell victim to someone with clippers who didn't have the patience to wait."

"Yeah, well-.", Weitzel began with a disparaging thought that she allowed to fade mid-stream, "The infuriating thing is that I just needed more UAV and satellite time. The straw man is here- I just lack the supporting data to put some meat and features on him."

"Those resources aren't ours, or I'd give you what you need.", Shiloah explained sounding almost apologetic without crossing that line, "With The Control Zone stirred up as it is though-."

Weitzel gave a nod of understanding, "You have to deal with the crocodile that's nipping at your heels before you worry about the one on the far river bank- yeah, I know. _Still-._ There's something here, Ephraim. Too many interesting questions with no reasonable answers for there not to be. This is a little piece, a scrap of something bigger. I feel it in my gut and it won't go away."

Shiloah allowed his briefcase to swing from his fingertips, pendulum-like as his face began to show the signs Weitzel had come to know as signifying more than mild or passing interest.

"You of course emphasized your belief that this was a matter that should not just go inactive in your summation?"

"I all but demanded a low-heat front burner, or if not a larger back-burner.", Weitzel replied, "Even if they don't give me resources, I'm not letting this die, Ephraim. I just worry that something I've said, or that I haven't said it correctly is going to have this slip officially between the cracks."

"Well-.", Shiloah said as he removed his security badge from his uniform coat lapel and swiped it through the card reader on his office door. The lock device acknowledged the card with a beep and Shiloah began to key in his access code, "-Fortunately I have years of experience in phrasing simple yet important concepts so they're easily understood by the dense and bureaucratic. Why don't we have a look at your file and summation and see how we can at least keep it viable?"

Weitzel was equal parts anxious to accept the offer and hesitant as Shiloah opened his office door and turned the lights on again, "I want to say yes, Ephraim, but your wife already gives you hell for the hours you spend at the office- and it's a quarter past two."

Shiloah ushered Weitzel into his office with a gentlemanly motion of his hand, "I'll just tell her that I was continuing a lurid affair with a young female analyst. She's a lovely woman and will forgive me for that-."

 **Edwards City, California**

 _"I was a highwayman._

 _On the coach roads I did ride-._

 _With sword and pistol by my side._

 _Many a young maid lost her marvels to my trade._

 _Many a soldier shed his life's blood on my blade._

 _The masters hung me in the spring of `25._

 _\- But I am still alive."_

Boxcar Willie, his distinct voice preserved for posterity by the digital recording medium of laser disc, was betrayed by the pops and hisses of a juke box's flawed and failing speakers in the sparsely patronized High Desert Pilot's Social Club.

Business had been slow all afternoon, evening, into the night, and on toward normal closing time that had come and gone- but Roxanna whose identity for better or worse had become intertwined with the role of "proprietor" showed little concern. It was known broadly on post and around Edwards City that The High Desert Pilot's Social Club was the habitual haunt of Vigilante and Knight Hawk Squadrons, and for that reason and for the fear (spineless as Roxanna considered it) of guilt by fraternization, many "regulars" had avoided the patchwork bar in anticipation of an appearance by the forsaken.

The pilots of both squadrons had begun to file in at around sundown in pairs or small groups- mostly contenting themselves to drink in small groups at the uneven, Frankenstein of a bar, or at the mismatched assortment of chairs and tables. Conversations had been quiet and subdued between them, and the other patrons- few as they had been- made no attempt to interact but rather studied them as objects of curiosity with quick and indirect glances. Under other circumstances, Roxanna would have been on guard against the probability of a fight- but for the moment, the fight had seemed to have left the pilots of the two fighter squadrons. What they needed was a quiet and familiar shelter, and Roxanna was happy to offer up The High Desert Pilot's Social Club for that purpose.

It had been well past nine when Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters pushed through the swinging and hole-ridden mesh door in the company of Lyle DeVeo. Normally jovial greetings from the other pilots of his and Vigilante squadrons were replaced by more subdued ones- though a sudden relief had been felt to wash over the room at his appearance. Naturally, the warmest and most excited greeting came from Rio who would have likely come over the bar had she been behind it at the moment of Winters' entrance. Instead, an excited chirp and squeal came from her throat as she rushed the pilot who despite his considerable size advantage to the diminutive waitress grunted with the force of their meeting and the strength of her embrace.

Those who would have cared to notice, Roxanna included, were agreeably surprised at just how long Winters had allowed the embrace and subsequent smattering of kisses to continue. Winters had then planted himself in his usual seat, joined by Lyle and Dalton a minute later. Rio had only parted company with the pilot to retrieve a bottle of bourbon and a small glass from behind the bar- and upon her return had deposited herself in Winters' lap where to the amazement of all he had allowed her to stay all evening.

Conspicuous by her absence was Colonel-select Ganyet Mumuni. No questions were asked nor ill aspersions cast with the understanding that she was entitled to her distance if she so chose. Mumuni could sometimes be socially aloof, but she would return when she'd made sense of things and put things into order again for herself.

It had been nearly twenty minutes at the table, Winters, Rio (attached), Dalton, Lyle, and Roxanna and at least three rounds of drinks before a word had been said between them. It had been hours before any topic outside of the most trivial had been broached.

Somewhere past one in the morning and despite the chill of the desert night air, Rio had fallen asleep, slumped against Winters' chest and in an unusual act of consideration he had pulled the flap of his worn leather jacket around her as far as it would go. Roxanna had seen all night the silver oak leaves that still stood prominently out against the faded brown leather epaulettes of Winters' jacket and had taken that silently as a good sign- but it was not until he had sheltered Rio from the cold that Roxanna noticed the two pinholes in the jacket's otherwise bare collar where Winters' fighter pilot's wings had been attached when she had last seen him.

"I can't figure that that's just going to be it.", Dalton said. It was a vague statement that had great resonance with everyone at the table whose thoughts were similarly oriented. Dalton chased the words with another sip of his beer, fearing for a moment that despite the group at the table having kept each others company for hours now, the reference might have still come too soon.

Lyle tipped back the bill of his cap with his beer mug before drawing on its contents less modestly.

" _Sheeyt-_ Ah dare `em ta try.", the plane captain scoffed, "Ain't no place fer `em ta go with it. Can't right try a man fer commitin' a crime `gainst a criminal act. Not with the chance'a the public findin' out anyway."

"Yeah-.", agreed Dalton, "Figure with nobody killed, and the only thing of any real substantial value destroyed being the shit the ASC can't fess up to- they'd almost have to sweep it under the rug. I wouldn't plan any leave to South America anytime soon though, Jack."

"Shame.", Winters said blandly, "You know, I never did get that parrot for Rio like I promised. I guess I'll have to put up with that damn, scrawny cat for a while longer. Call it part of the sentence in doing my time on Planet Earth. I owe you some thanks, Lyle- that little end run of yours was dash clever. Dash clever indeed."

Lyle waved the complement off like a bad odor, "Aw, hell-. Just gettin' done what needs ta geyt done. B'sides, Ah done got ya trained just how Ah like- `n that's a hard thang with pilots."

Winters tipped his wheel cap back with his swagger stick before pointing it at Dalton, "You'll have to contend with this sod, I'm afraid. I'll be flying stick and rudder on a desk for the foreseeable future."

Dalton shook his head and said optimistically, "Hey, c'mon- _the bright side_ here…. Flight status, grounded. Hell, they didn't even bust you to major-."

Lyle interjected, "Hell, how could they without formal charges?"

"You'll annoy enough people around Flight Ops and they'll scream to have you back in the cockpit before you know it.", Dalton speculated.

"Grounded on commander's discretion.", Winters corrected, "Old Arnie can pretty well keep me hanging in limbo as long as he likes that way. If I'm a good lap dog, maybe he'll let me look out the window at the flight line in a year or ten. Anyway, as you said, Freddy- at least I'm not a major. Do you think this will effect my promotability though?"

Dalton picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table in front of him and after lighting one for himself, tossed the pack to Winters.

"Maybe- I don't know…. Hey, you could write Mathias and ask him for a letter of recommendation. He'll paint you to be such a pain in the ass, you'll be in Arnie's seat before you can say _MFWIC_."

Winters lit his cigarette and snapped the lid of his Zippo shut with a loud metallic click, "Hell, I've done wrong, Freddy- but I don't deserve that."

Dalton emptied his beer and in looking around found that those at the table at which he was seated were the only souls left in the bar with the exception of Tuawan who was behind the counter, closing out the register. A look at his watch told him why.

"Well-.", Dalton said, rising slowly on beer-logged legs, "As much as I love these moments, I have to go home and kiss my kids good-night. –Explain to my wife why the wives of other officers are going to treat her like a leper for the next twenty years."

"Give my best to Linda.", Winters said as Dalton made his way toward the door.

"I'm sure she'd tell me to tell you to go fuck yourself.", Dalton replied over his shoulder as he put on his airman's cap and stepped out into the night.

"And my love to her too.", Winters called after.

Dalton's truck had pulled away into the early morning darkness and had been gone for some time leaving Winters, Lyle, and Roxanna in silence. It would be time for them to part ways as well soon. All had lost their momentum in drinking, Johnny Cash had since finished out the song that Winters had had playing on the juke box all evening, and the pack of cigarettes was nearly empty.

Roxanna sensed that Winters must have been thinking the same thing as he was burning through his cigarette unusually fast and had allowed the level of bourbon in his glass to sink below the halfway point. The proprietor of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club offered a final cigarette to Lyle who took it with a nod of gratitude, took one herself, and gave the last to Winters who by that time was ready for it.

A single cigarette and the last of three drinks would be enough time for one more small conversation- the one she had been itching to have all night.

"So, Jack-.", Roxanna began pensively.

"Hmmm?", Winters acknowledged as flame from his lighter licked the end of his cigarette and smoke curled away from it in a lazily looping whisp.

"I gotta ask, you know-.", Roxanna continued, "What happened down there? Truthfully-."

Winters chuckled mirthlessly, "The truth?"

Roxanna nodded, leaning into the table with the expectation of something profound after wading through a night of the fallout.

" _The truth_.", Winters repeated before downing the last of his drink, "Don't search for it, Roxanna-. You might not like what you find."

250


	11. Afterword Coming Attractions

**Afterword / Coming Attractions**

Dear Loyal (and patient) Readers-

Thank you for making the investment to read the second book in my series, _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_.

Now that we've established the antagonists, the Te'Dak Tohl caste of Zentraedi, their principal characters and their motivations in my first posted book, _Robotech: The Ashes of Empire_ , and have met the "protagonists" (the flawed bunch that they are) and have become acquainted with the condition of Earth in _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ \- we're now ready for an epic clash.

 _Robotech: The Enforcers' War_ will begin posting very soon, and will deliver (I hope) on what _Robotech_ fans would expect from the storyline/scenario I have been working toward in the last two books.

I was reflecting on the reaction of FanFiction readers to _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ with a friend of mine, confiding in him that I was a little confused and puzzled that the reception in general had not been as great as that for _Robotech: The Ashes of Empire._ He pointed out to me, "You know, it's probably because it's not really what people would think of when they hear, _Robotech…_ "

In hindsight, I'd say that's a fair assessment. I suspect and wholly understand that some might be a little put off to start going through a book with "Robotech" in the title and not find page after page of savage melees between the RDF and Zentraedi. For those of you who might feel that way, I sympathize and assure you that _Robotech: The Enforcers' War_ does contain that- _a lot_ of that.

For _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ , my position remains what it was when writing the book- that _Robotech_ , and by extension "Robotechnology" is an interesting framework to build stories upon and around, but that the stories have to be about the characters and not the neat and flashy bells and whistles of an alien technology.

I think that if I had to sum up my argument of _Robotech: The Smoldering Earth_ , it would have to be that Humankind has all of these nifty abilities now because of Robotechnology, but it is still bound and restricted by the fact that it's made up of imperfect, "Mk-1 Human Beings". Sure, the REF has starships that can bend space and leap from one spot to another thousands of light years away in a little more than the blink of an eye- but The United Earth is still having problems feeding its population. There is a huge, resident alien menace on the Earth, and still human beings are just as likely to squabble and brawl with one another over the control and distribution of resources that have little bearing on the average citizen's life. Personal and regional/national interests outweigh the pursuit of a common good and security, and distract all from real threats.

…And look what's creeping up on us because of it.

But- it does open the door to the colossal slug-fest that is the upcoming, _Robotech: The Enforcers' War_ and the works that will follow it.

I hope I still hold your interest and confidence in my ability to tell that story and that you'll join me for that ride-.

 _It's gonna be alotta fun!.._

Very Respectfully,

GVincent


End file.
